LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


X  7- 


IN  A  PORTUGUESE    GARDEN 


AND  OTHER  VERSE 


BY 
CARA  E.  WHITON-STONE 

Author  of  "  Sonnets,  Songs,  Laments,"  etc. 


BOSTON 
SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &>  COMPANY 

1911 


COPYRIGHT,  1911 
SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &*  COMPANT 


TO 

THE  THREE  CHEVALIERS 

ONE  IMMORTAL 

WHO  HAVE  MADE  THIS  BOOK  POSSIBLE 
AND  TO 

AN  EAGLE  AND  A  DOVE 

WHOSE  SPLENDID  FLIGHTS  HAVE 
BEEN  EXAMPLE  AND  INSPIRATION 

THESE  VERSES  ARE  DEDICATED 


AN  EAGLE  AND  A  DOVE 

They  mate  not  and  yet  mate,  these  wondrous  two. 

The  one  mounts  up  with  mighty  wings  that  beat 

To  tractless  solitudes,  content  to  meet 

No  rival  but  the  sun,  and  would  break  through 

The  sky's  supreme  immeasurable  blue 

To  conquer  him,  and  heeding  cold  nor  heat 

Insatiate  mounts  and  mounts,  nor  will  retreat 

Till  conquering,  he  shall  the  sun  outdo. 

The  other  waits  divinely  calm  to  know 

From  the  white  glory  in  her  soul,  how  best 

To  bear  a  healing  balm  to  some  great  woe, 

And  wears  the  whole  of  heaven  within  her  breast, 

And  while  the  eagle  seeks  the  sun  to  know 

What  lies  beyond  the  sun,  the  dove  has  guessed. 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  I 

PAGE 

IN   A   PORTUGUESE  GARDEN      ....  3 

BOOK  II 

SONNETS  TO  A  SAPPHIC  SINGER      ...          25 

BOOK  III 
HEXAMETERS 59 

BOOK  IV 

EDWARD  THE  SEVENTH  AND  OTHER  THREN 
ODIES    91 

BOOK  V 
SONGS  OF  THE  CITIES 133 

BOOK  VI 

SONGS   OF  THE  SEASONS 165 

BOOK  VII 
MISCELLANEOUS  269 


BOOK  I 
IN  A  PORTUGUESE  GARDEN 


IN  A  PORTUGUESE  GARDEN 


CANTO  I 

0  FAIREST  of  the  Fair,  would  I  could  send 
My  soul  to  thee,  across  the  upper  skies, 

To  thee,  whose  eyes  are  like  the  stars  that  rise 
In  sight  of  morning,  and  with  morning  blend. 

The  heavy  pomegranate  scents  that  lie 

In  dusky  splendor  of  thy  flooding  hair 

Are  wafted  by  the  flame-winged  birds  that  fly 

Fanning  in  scarlet  triumph  through  the  air. 

1  hear  the  insects  droning  in  the  heat, 

I  hear  the  south  winds  through  the  palm  trees 

sigh, 

Incarnate  music  seems  to  swoon  and  die 
In  all  the  lutes  of  Summer  at  thy  feet. 

Thou  seemst  for  some  mystery  to  wait; 
Thou  knowest  ecstasies  of  lutes  enfold 
Summer's  consummate  breath:  I  bring  thee  bold 
One  ecstasy,  than  Summer's  all,  more  great. 


3n  a  Portuguese  <£arUen 


At  coming  of  thy  footsteps  I  rejoice, 

Thou  art  the  playmate  of  the  winds  and  flowers 

I  know  no  time,  I  only  count  the  hours 

In  which  I  hear  the  music  of  thy  voice. 

The  days  grow  more  divine  with  thee,  the  nights 
Are  mighty  with  thy  presence ;  and  the  moon 
Bends  low  o'er  thee,  as  to  the  heart  of  June 
And  spills  o'er  thee,  its  million  silver  lights. 

I  follow  thee,  as  shadow  follows  light 
I  worship  thee,  as  some  transcendent  star 
Tangled  in  meshes  of  the  worlds  afar 
That  is  too  perfect  to  be  hidden  from  sight. 

I  hardly  dare  to  kiss  thy  hand  "good-night" 
Thou  art  so  beautiful,  thou  seemst  to  wear 
The  high  reserve  that  the  eternals  bear 
Turning  their  faces  towards  the  mystic  light. 

The  winds  across  the  jasmine  cease  to  blow, 
The  scarlet-breasted  birds  their  raptures  hush, 
And  o'er  the  breast  of  evening  falls  a  flush 
Hearing  thee,  virgin-hearted,  praying  low. 

Good-night,  O  Love!     The  golden  days  are  fleet 
The  doves  are  flocking  homeward  to  their  eaves 
A  fluttering  silence  falls  upon  the  leaves 
Go,    fold   thine  eyes,   the   doves   will   watch   thee, 

Sweet. 
Heart  of  my  Heart,  good-night. 


a  Portuguese  @atPen 


CANTO  II 

Thou  comest  from  thy  tent  of  sleep  away 
With  an  auroral  calm  upon  thy  face, 
Waiting  awhile   in  the  white   dawn's  embrace, 
Ere  thou  shalt  quaff  the  golden  wine  of  day. 

The   flowers   are  drenched  with   dew,  the   garden 

waits 

Transfiguration  of  the  rising  sun 
That  slowly  mounts  and  mounts  till  it  is  won 
To  pay  thee  tribute  at  its  unbarred  gates. 

As  if  heaven  had  been  drained  of  golden  fire 
The  world  from  East  to  West  is  drenched  in  it 
And  thou,  thy  calm,  strange,  beauty,  glory-lit 
Adown  the  azalia  pathway  drawest  nigher. 

0  Peerless  One,  how  whisper  what  I  feel  ! 

1  search  the  asolian  voices  in  the  air 
For  one  divine  enough  my  love  to  bear, 
Whose  homage  is  so  great  I  fain  would  kneel. 

Thou  lookest  up,  with  thy  young  eyes  aglow 
Creation's  sunrise  transport,  I  partake 
O  heart,  if  thou  canst  bear  to  beat,  nor  break 
Teach  me  some  heavenly  way  my  love  to  show. 

Once  more  the  morning  blazons  into  day, 
Once  more  the  insects  trumpet  through  the  heat 
And  all  the  lutes  of  Summer  at  thy  feet 
Into  a  soundless  rapture  swoon  away. 


6         3n  a  Portuguese  <£>arDen 

I  know  not  is  it  June  or  Paradise, 
A  tender  mist  hangs  o'er  the  matchless  sky 
A  line  of  pink  marks  where  the  ripples  die 
And  into  souls  of  murmuring  sea-shells  rise. 

And  so  we  silent  wander  hand  in  hand. 

What  need  of  speech?     We  are  content  to  share 

The  language  of  the  earth  and  upper  air. 

It  is  enough — eternity  is  spanned. 

Good-night !    Good-night,  Beloved,  thou  canst  not 

stay 

I  see  the  doves  flock  homeward  to  their  eaves, 
I  hear  the  whispered  secrets  of  the  leaves 
Go  Sweet,  and  come  forth  with  the  virgin  day. 
Heart  of  my  Heart,  good-night. 


CANTO  III 

Thou  comest,  and  the  birds  sing  clear  and  high 
To  greet  thee,  O  thou  Dreamer  of  White  Dreams, 
Along  the  pathway  aurioled  with  the  gleams 
Dropped  from  a  silver  cloud  that  roams  the  sky. 

The  sun,  as  waiting  thee,  is  hidden  away, 

In  mists  diaphonous  that  trail  the  East 

And  drape  thee,  as  for  some  transcendent  feast 

In  gauzy  opalescence  of  the  day. 


a  Portugue0e  Garden 


Then  as  thou  standest,  sudden  above  the  flowers 
The  sun  seeing  thee,  sets  the  whole  world  aglow 
And  lilies  weep  for  joy,  and  birds  sing  low 
And  the  new  day  is  born,  and  heaven  is  ours. 

For  us,  O  Best  Beloved,  the  glow  will  stay, 
For  us,  sunrise  will  be  from  morn  till  night  ; 
And  though  we  see  time,  poised  as  if  for  flight, 
For  us,  for  evermore  will  be  the  day. 

O  Sweet,  I  read  in  those  strange  eyes  of  thine 
The  calm  of  saints  that  travels  ray  on  ray 
The  circling  of  the  million  suns  that  sway 
Toward  the  lilied  sweeps  of  fields  divine. 

And  so  we  watch  the  crimson  roses  blow 
And  golden   sunshine  drifting  through  the  trees 
And  hear  the  South  wind's  whispers  of  litanies 
And  soundless  deeps  of  the  eternal  know. 

And  once  more  morning  blazons  into  day 
And  once  more  murmuring  insects  drone  in  heat 
And  all  the  lutes  of  Summer  at  thy  feet 
Into  a  soundless  rapture  swoon  away. 

Why  seeing  thee,  must  I  so  silent  be? 
Who  know  that  thou  art  fairest  of  the  fair, 
Why  do  I  not  proclaim  it  through  the  air 
Until  the  butterflies  bring  word  to  thee? 


8 


Why  do  I  not  call  into  the  blue  abyss 

Thou,  Flower  of  the  Universe,  art  here 

And  bid  the  winds  blow  thee,  from  hill  tops  near 

Its  heavenly  benediction  and  its  kiss. 

If  I  am  silent,  thou  art  silent,  too ; 
The  birds  are  singing  what  we  fain  would  say 
The  flowers  are  breathing  it  along  the  way 
Sparks  glittering  star  the  air,  as  if  they  knew. 

The  shadows  lengthen, — sunrise  still  in   sight, — 
I  see  the  doves  flock  homeward  to  their  eaves, 
I  hear  the  whispered  secrets  of  the  leaves, 
Thou  turnest  away,  ah,  must  I  say  good-night? 
Heart  of  my  Heart,  good-night. 

CANTO  IV 

O  sky  of  chrysoprase  with  stars  still  lit 
When  thou  shalt  hear  the  footsteps  of  my  day 
Coming  in  soundles  rhythm  along  the  way 
Rush  into  saffron,  and  then  drown  in  it. 

Drown  thyself  deep  in  it,  till  hair  astream, 
The  sky  shall  swim  to  sight,  and  I  shall  see 
The  fairest  of  the  fair  approaching  me, 
And  all,  all  else  will  vanish  like  a  dream. 

And  hast  thou  come,  Beloved,  and  dost  thou  know, 
The  heavens  magnificence  is  spread  for  thee? 
Come  closer,  Sweet,  and  let  us  watch  and  see 
The  vast  effulgence  gulf  us  here  below. 


a  Portuguese  <$arDen         9 

All  is  as  yesterday,  there  is  no  sight 

Or  scent,  or  sound,  or  bird  on  any  tree 

That  sings   his   scarlet-raptured  dreams   to   thee 

That  is  forgotten,  all  is  changeless  bright. 

The  paths  are  lined  with  flowers,  the  poppies  lift 
Their  drowsy  heads  as  if  to  nod  salute, 
But  though  empulsed  in  music,  we  are  mute, 
And  sun  enmarshaled  into  Eden  drift. 

And  once  more  morning  blazons  into  day, 

And  once  more  murmuring  insects  drone  in  heat 

And  all  the  lutes  of  Summer  at  thy  feet 

Into  a  soundless  rapture  swoon  away. 

Oh  Love,  not  worthy  I  thy  slave  to  be, 
I  am  so  poor  a  thing,  so  wondrous  thou, 
Yet  with  thy  virgin  kiss  upon  my  brow 
I  wear  a  crown  that  kings  might  envy  me. 

Thine  eyes  that  search  the  yellow  flaming  air 
Are  shining,  Sweet,  as  if  the  sight  of  rings 
That  mark  the  upward  path  of  glittering  wings 
Had  left  consummate  glory  visioned  there. 

Lend  me  thy  wondrous  power  that  I  may  know 
As  thou,  O  Sweet,  the  secret  souls  of  things 
And  learn  that  love  that  into  flowering  springs 
May  the  whole  boundless  universe  outgrow. 


10        an  a  Portuguese  <$arDen 

And  must  I  say  good-night,  sunrise  in  sight? 
I  see  the  doves  flock  homeward  to  their  eaves, 
I  hear  the  whispered  secrets  of  the  leaves 
Ah,  must  I,  must  I,  must  I  say  good-night? 
Heart  of  my  Heart,  good-night ! 


CANTO  V 

The  birds  at  thy  approach  to  chorus  break 
As  at  a  festival,  O  Peerless  Fair, 
I  see  thee  coming  through  the  sunrise  air 
Nearer  and  nearer  until  thy  hand  I  take. 

Then  while  thine  hand  within  mine  own  is  pressed, 
The  birds  still  singing,  glad  and  high  and  free 
As  if  to  pay  obeisance  unto  thee, 
The  sun  sails  up,  and  bares  its  scarlet  breast. 

And  thou  and  I,  O  Sweet,  and  thou  and  I, 
Beneath  the  glory  wander  to  and  fro 
And  watch  the  fading  of  the  sunrise  glow 
And  all  the  crystal  morning  splendor  die. 

To-day  the  breezes  blow  from  far  away 
Strange  murmurous  sounds  like  echoes  of  a  flute, 
While  yesterday  the  glittering  leaves  were  mute, 
And  which  more  beautiful,  we  cannot  say. 

The  sky  has  slowly  into  sapphire  grown, 

The  flush  has  changed  to  amber  in  the  air 

We  scarce  can  breathe  with  joy  too  great  to  bear 

And  birds  still  sing,  although  the  birds  are  flown. 


3n  a  Portuguese  (fcarDen        11 

And  once  more  morning  blazons  into  day, 

And  once  more  murmuring  insects  drone  in  heat 

And  all  the  lutes  of  Summer  at  thy  feet 

Into  a  soundless  rapture  swoon  away. 

0  Sweet,  for  us,  not  long  enough  the  days 
The:  mornings  slip  to  noons,  and  ere  we  know 
The  honeysuckles  silver  trumpets  blow 

The  sunset  hour,  and  hills  are  drowned  in  haze. 

The  burnished  golden  shadows  round  us  beat, 
An  orange  cloud  is  floating  from  the  West ; 
And  still  within  mine  own  thy  hand  is  pressed; 
This,  this  is  our — forever — Sweet. 

The  fireflies  flash,  the  stars  gleam  here  and  there 
The  palm  trees  stand  out  purple,  'gainst  the  sky 
Almost  we  hear  the  weeping  grasses  sigh, 
And  all  the  scents  of  Summer  fill  the  air. 

Thou  goest  away — the  sunrise  still  in  sight — - 
The  doves  are  flocking  homeward  to  their  eaves ; 

1  hear  the  whispered  secrets  of  the  leaves ; 
And  must  I,  Sweet,  oh  must  I  say  good-night? 
Heart  of  my  Heart,  good-night ! 


CANTO  VI 

Hither  enwrapped  in  transparent  light 
Where  Summer  has  let  down  its  golden  bars 
Thou  comest,  who  has  slept  watched  by  the  stars, 
In  the  majestic  cradle  of  the  night. 


Sn  a  Portugue0e 


Across  the  purple  of  the  morning's  breast 

The  rosy  tide  has  not  yet  wholly  run 

And  wider,  wider  yet  to  flood  the  sun 

We  watched  it,  sweeping  on  from  east  to  west. 

O  Sweet,  the  heavens  have  made  us  high  bequest, 
In  this  omnipotence  of  rosy  flame 
What  other  morn  can  such  transcendence  claim 
Is  it,  O  Love,  that  glory  is  at  crest? 

How  can  we  know  which  is  the  fairest  tide? 
All,  all,  are  fairest,  since  we  closer  drew 
And  breathless  watched  the  rapture  as  it  flew 
And  still  looked  on,  nor  knew  when  it  had  died. 

Come,  Love,  with  me  beneath  the  palm  trees  shade 
And  watch  the  scintillations  of  the  heat 
Through  the  great  arteries  of  the  noon  air  beat 
While  in  the  distance,  Pipes  of  Pan  are  played. 

And  once  more  morning  blazons  into  day, 
And  once  more  murmuring  insects  drone  in  heat 
And  all  the  lutes  of  Summer  at  thy  feet 
Into  a  soundless  rapture  swoon  away. 

And  as  of  old,  the  sylvan  paths  we  tread 
And  hear  the  inarticulate  delight 
Of  growing  things,  while  Summer  at  its  height 
Ablaze  with  music,  burns  to  blue  o'er  head. 


3n  a  Portitgue0e  (garden        is 

And  so  the  Pipes  of  Pan  play  on,  while  we 
Watch  day  with  cooler  veins  go  drifting  by 
And  'gainst  the  bare  blue  splendor  of  the  sky, 
One  great  white  butterfly  down-sailing  see. 

And  thou  and  I,  O  Sweet  and  thou  and  I, 
Who  know  how  vast  the  earth  and  sky  and  air 
Hear  fluttering  wings  around  us  everywhere, 
And  are  ourselves  enwinged  with  ecstasy. 

The  twilight  falls,  the  dear  divine  day  dies, 

On  the  far  hilltops  sing  the  nightingales 

A  golden-breasted  moon  above  us  sails 

And  we  sail  past  it  through  the  opening  skies. 

And  then  thou  goest,  sunrise  still  in  sight, 
I  see  the  doves  flock  homeward  to  their  eaves, 
I  hear  the  whispered  secrets  of  the  leaves 
O  Best  Beloved,  must  I  say  good-night? 
Heart  of  my  Heart,  good-night. 

CANTO  VII 

O  Peerless  One,  my  soul  leaps  up  to  hear 
Thy  voice  that  through  the  air  divinely  calls 
Who  watch  thee,  clad  in  a  flooding  veil  that  falls 
Enmeshed  with  sunrise  splendor  drawing  near. 

Above  thee  in  an  iridescent  sea 
The  sun  with  scarlet  breath  and  blazing  breast 
As  if  all  Summer's  joy  was  in  it  pressed 
Looks  down  through  panoply  of  June,  on  thee. 


14-        an  a  Portuguese  ®acDen 

Looks  down  on  thee,  O  Beautiful,  O  Fair, 
As  if  adoring — and  with  gorgeous  might 
Drops  down  on  thee,  a  more  translucent  light 
Who,  standstj  upgazing  like  a  saint  at  prayer. 

And  then  thou  comest  with  me,  clad  in  light 
To  watch  the  jasmine  and  the  palms  and  rose 
And  feel  the  warm  wind  that  around  us  blows 
Laden  with  perfume  of  the  dew  clad  night. 

There  are  no  changes,  save  that  here  and  there 
Where  some  wild  rose's  petals  lie  in  shower 
Another  bud,  has  broken  into  flower 
And  beauty,  beauty  still,  is  zenithed  there. 

And  as  we  watch  in  love's  unmapped  degree, 
The  matchless'  sky,  and  palms  and  buds  in  glow, 
All  the  June's  reckless  splendor  seems  to  flow 
Into  our  souls,  like  a  resistless  sea. 

O  Best  Beloved,  O  Divine,  O  Sweet, 
We  scarce  can  bear  the  rushing  floods  that  shake 
Our  hearts  to  such  wild  joy,  they  almost  break 
As  with  the  sweep  of  shoreless  waves,  they  beat. 

And  once  more  morning  blazons  into  day, 
And  once  more  murmuring  insects  drone  in  heat 
And  all  the  lutes  of  Summer  at  thy  feet 
Into  a  soundless  rapture  swoon  away. 


3n  a  Portugue0e  (garDen        15 

The  sun's  light  deepens,  and  its  myriad  rays 
Drop  as  it  sweeps  up  to  a  goldener  height 
And  stabs  us  with  unspeakable  delight 
And  sets  the  grasses  at  our  feet  ablaze. 

Wilder  than  Pipes  of  Pan,  tune  after  tune 
On  winds  that  blow  is  borne  us,  until  they  grow 
So  all  divine,  so  heavenly  sweet  we  know 
It  is  not  music  that  we  hear,  but  June. 

The  palm  trees  into  shadows  have  been  won ; 
The  clouds  that  drift  out  from  the  west,  burn  red ; 
The  tunes  play  on,  although  the  sun  is  dead 
Play  on,  play  on,  and  still,  still,  still,  play  on. 

Thou  goest  away — the  sunrise  still  in  sight — - 
I  see  the  doves  flock  homeward  to  their  eaves, 
I  hear  the  whispered  secrets  of  the  leaves — 
And  must  I,  must  I,  must  I  say  good-night? 
Heart  of  my  Heart,  good-night. 


CANTO  VIII 

Hasten,  oh  hasten,  Love,  I  wait  for  thee 
To  watch  the  half-oped  rose  of  sunrise  blow 
And  drop  on  thee,  its  sea-shell  flush  below 
And  flood  thee  with  its  boundless  radiancy. 

I  see  thee,  coming  and  around  thee  flows 
A  vast  resplendence — and  to  cheat  the  day 
The  sunrise-scattered  petals  round  thee  lay 
And  it  is  thou,  thou,  Sweet,  that  wearst  the  rose. 


16        an  a  Portuguese 


And  then,  O  Sweet,  the  sky  bereaved,  o'ercast, 
With  flecks  as  of  remembrance  is  lined 
And  here  and  there  a  petal  left  behind 
Fades,  till  its  silent  breast  is  blue  at  last. 

The  rose  is  dead,  but  in  the  East  the  sun 
Has  burned  itself  a  place,  and  flings  around 
A  flood  of  melted  gold  upon  the  ground, 
Through  which,  toward  the  flowers  our  feet  are 
won. 

O  Sweet,  the  world  is  like  a  rainbow  arc 
Radiant  with  burning  joys  of  yesterdays; 
We  wander  on,  where  the  gold  light  still  stays, 
It  matters  not  which  way,  who  know  no  dark. 

And  once  more  morning  blazons  into  day, 
And  once  more  murmuring  insects  drone  in  heat 
And  all  the  lutes  of  Summer  at  thy  feet 
Into  a  soundless  rapture  swoon  away. 

The  roses  that  we  see,  not  roses  are, 
They  are  our  dreams  transfixed  ;  the  perfect  glow 
Of  this  o'erwhelming  passion  that  we  know, 
The  blood-red  glory  of  love's  morning  star. 

There  is  no  cloud  upon  the  turquoise  sky 
The  golden  hush  is  palpitant  and  deep 
Nature  itself  seems  to  have  fallen  asleep 
And  tranced  aloft,  the  zephyrs  breathe  no  sigh. 


Jn  a  Portugue0e  aartien        17 

The  silence  to  transfiguration  slips 
And  thou  and  I,  in  an  enchanted  dream 
Float  outward  on  the  bosom  of  a  stream 
Out,  out,  and  out,  toward  the  apocalypse. 

We  know  not,  that  the  day  is  waning  fast 
Nor  that  a  dusky  purple  floods  the  air 
We  still  drift  on,  and  still  drift  on,  to  where 
There  is  no  earth,  only  the  eternal  vast. 

The  purple  darkens,  sunrise  still  in  sight — 
I  see  the  doves  flock  homeward  to  their  eaves, 
I  hear  the  whispered  secrets  of  the  leaves 
Must  I,  O  Sweet,  and  must  I  say  good-night? 
Heart  of  my  Heart,  good-night. 


CANTO  IX 

Day,  day  is  here,  and  of  all  other  days 

This  is  divinest,  for  I  take  thy  hand 

And  know  that  all  of  earth  and  heaven  is  spanned 

In  the  white  innocency  of  thy  gaze. 

Thou  art  areek  with  Summer,  and  in  might 

Of  thy  strange  beauty,  thou  hast  claim  to  share 

The  glory  of  the  sun,  who,  unaware 

Has  dropped  upon  thy  face  his  fullest  light. 

The  birds  sail  down  from  heaven,  because  so  fair 
And  as  in  homage,  come  and  sing  to  thee 
And  sunlit  clouds  that  sail  the  upper  sea 
Lingering  above  thy  head  grow  goldener  there. 


is        3n  a  Portuguese  Garden 

And  yesterday,  and  yesters,  yesterday 
It  was  the  same,  and  earth  and  air  and  sky 
Seemed   to   yearn   toward   thee,   as   thou   drewest 

nigh 
And  grow  to  shadow,  when  thou  turnd'st  away. 

The  sunshine  is  aflood  with  butterflies, 
That  to  its  myriads  golden  ladders  keep : 
We  see  the  hills,  engulfed  in  azure  sleep 
Pillowed  upon  the  bosom  of  the  skies. 

And  thou  and  I,  O  Sweet,  and  thou  and  I, 
Drink  deep  the  undregged  goblet  of  delight 
And  know  that  we  have  been  vouchsafed  the  sight 
Of  the  eternal  fires  that  burn  on  high. 

And  once  more  morning  blazons  into  day, 
And  once  more  murmuring  insects  drone  in  heat, 
And  all  the  lutes  of  Summer  at  thy  feet 
Into  a  soundless  rapture  swoon  away. 

O  Love,  it  is  Omnipotence  that  reigns, 

The    earth    is    throbbing   with    it,    prism'ed    with 

light, 

And  the  whole  reckless  sky,  with  June  at  height, 
Like  liquid  heaven  is  racing  through  our  veins. 

The  heart  of  Summer  beats  in  everything; 
We  hear  it  in  the  buds  that  sighing  blow ; 
We  hear  it  in  the  river's  lapping  flow ; 
And  birds  keep  time  with  it  on  whirring  wing. 


3n  a  Portugue0e  (DatDett        19 

A  golden  haze,  the  golden  sunshine  meets, 
The  dews  are  weeping  for  the  day  that  dies 
We  know  not  as  the  emblazoned  vapors  rise 
If  it  is  Summer's  heart,  or  ours  that  beats. 

The  Western  glory  flickers  and  burns  low 
The  sun  has  drowned  itself  in  sea  of  red 
And  thou  and  I,  beneath  the  light  o'erhead 

0  Sweet,  O  Fair,  through  gates  of  Jasper  go. 

And  night  drops  down,  the  sunrise  still  in  sight; 

1  see  the  doves  flock  homeward  to  their  eaves ; 
I  hear  the  whispered  secrets  of  the  leaves, 
And  must  I,  must  I,  must  I  say  good-night? 
Heart  of  my  Heart,  good-night ! 


CANTO  X 

And  thou  art  here,  here,  Love  and  one  white  star 
That  loitered  till  thou  earnest  has  pierced  its  way 
Into  the  burning  bosom  of  the  day 
And  seeing  thee,  has  vanished  out  of  sight. 

The   sun   mounts    up,   and   mounting  higher   and 

higher 

We  watch  it  hand  in  hand  until  it  sends 
Its  greeting  to  the  world,  and  as  it  bends 
Down-scatters  at  our  feet  its  jeweled  fire. 


Sn  a  Portuguese 


Across  the  blazing  arch,  cloud  after  cloud 
Like  fleecy  phantoms  of  the  day,  goes  by 
And  into  silence  of  the  earth  and  sky 
The  music  of  creation  seems  to  crowd. 

A  single  sunbeam  that  has  hither  strayed 
Marks  out  a  golden  path  through  which  we  go 
To  the  high  solitudes  where  lilies  blow 
And  where,   hark,   Sweet,  the  Pipes   of  Pan   are 
played. 

And  once  more  morning  blazons  into  day, 
And  once  more  murmuring  insects  drone  in  heat 
And  all  the  lutes  of  Summer  at  thy  feet 
Into  a  soundless  rapture  swoon  away. 

So  blue  the  sky,  so  passionately  blue 

It  seems  to  melt  into  infinity 

And  we  who,  raptured  can  Beyond  descrye 

Lifted  upon  its  breast,  melt  upward,  too. 

And  then  O  Love,  we  watch  until  afar, 
The  sunset  clouds  adown  the  horizon  sweep 
And  burn  to  gold ;  and  as  if  waked  from  sleep 
Amid  the  smoldering  glow  an  amethyst  star. 

0  Best  Beloved,  O  Divine,  O  Sweet, 
The  mystery  and  wonder  of  these  days 
Bears  me  to  where,  beyond  the  sunset  haze 

1  see  the  light  through  which  archangels  beat. 


Jn  a  Portuguese  <$atDen        21 

The  tender  night  wind  blows  across  the  flowers ; 
Heaven's  undertone  is  swelling  as  we  go, 
O  Love,  from  the  forever  that  we  know, 
Into  the  new  Forever,  still  more  ours. 

The  dews  fall  fast,  with  sunrise  still  in  sight 
The   flocking   doves   are   slumbering   'neath   their 

eaves, 

We  know  the  whispered  secrets  of  the  leaves 
O  Best  Beloved,  must  I  say  good-night? 
Heart  of  my  Heart,  good-night ! 


BOOK  II 

SONNETS  TO 
A  SAPPHIC  SINGER 


WHEN  thou  and  I  had  parted,  Sweet,  and  night 
Had  drowned  the  twilight  in  its  purple  sea, 
The  stars  that  amber  flashing  shone  o'er  me, 
Like    sparks    of    the   burned    day    showered    into 

sight, 

Seemed  to,  mysterious  echo  from  their  height 
Thy  minstrel  soul's  insistent  minstrelsy; 
And  all  the  skies  were  palpitate  with  thee, 
Who  art,  heaven  voiced,  epiphany  of  light ; 
Although  but  pathways  through  Spring  violets 
In  sunlit  fields  thine  April  feet  have  known, 
Thou  understandest  every  tide  that  frets 
My    shoreless    heart,    life's    swirling    maelstrom's 

shown 

Its  pangs,  desires,  and  infinite  regrets, 
Because  thou  wear'st  the  rose  of  Song,  full  blown. 


26        3n  a  Portuguese 


ii 

Beloved  of  Music,  radiant  with  the  might 
Of  lyric  passion,  that  mysterious  glows, 
They,  chosen  of  old  to  wear  the  Pierian  rose, 
Make  room  for  thee  ;  for,  Greek-souled,  thou  hast 

sight 

Vouchsafed  alone,  to  those  who  dwell  on  height 
Where  once  dwelt  gods  ;  and  all  the  fire  that  goes 
From  sun  to  sunrise  through  thy  being  flows  ; 
Bearing  thy  heaven-winged  dreams  to  heavenliest 

flight. 

Thou  capturest  Beauty  if  on  land  or  sea, 
Shining  or  sad  ;  and  the  wild  rains  that  wet 
The  Spring's  first  born  divine  anemone 
Thou  who  art  pulsed  with  pulse  of  Spring  canst 

set 

Into  a  song  that  will  drop  melody  ! 
And,  sapphic  cadenced,  sublimate  regret. 


a  Portuguese  harden        27 


ni 


Yea,  and  a  matchless  day  with  gold  supreme 

And  zenithed  sun,  and  clouds  that  eastward  go, 

Thou  canst  so  tangle  in  thy  verses'  flow 

Th'  emblazoned  light  in  every  word  will  gleam ; 

Sing'st  thou  of  lilies  in  a  silver  stream, 

And  in  thy  lines  they  pulsate,  aye,  and  blow, 

And  all  the  ripples  into  rhythms  grow, 

And  thou  canst  attar  Summer  in  a  dream. 

Go —  and  in  splendor  of  some  perfect  line 

The  flawless  heart  of  some  great  truth  disclose, 

And  lyric  inspiration  that  shall  shine, 

As  into  Song's  resplendent  sea  it  flows — 

So  sunned  in  it,  Thought's  sovereigns  shall  divine 

Thy  classic  right  to  wear  the  Pierian  rose. 


28        Jin  a  Portuguese 


IV 


Dream  thine  own  dreams,  Dear  Heart,  in  thine 

own  way, 

And  how  to  shape  them  best,  thou  best  wilt  know ; 
They  are  so  fair,  so  fair,  that  they  may  blow 
Into  white  hyacinths,  'neath  the  sun,  some  day : 
And  left  in  garden  of  the  gods  to  stray, 
If  thou   shouldst  wear  them,  when   they  blossom 

so, 

Into  them,  souls  of  nightingales  will  go, 
Sung  from  thy  heart,  as  from  the  heart  of  May. 
The  world  has  need  of  what  its  dreamers  lend, 
Nor   knows,    with   vapors    chilled,    its    need    how 

great ; 

But  let  thy  song,  despite  the  mist,  ascend ; 
Unloose  thy  prisoned  nightingales,  nor  wait, 
And  thy  winged  hyacinthine  dreams  may  blend 
With   dreams    of   those   who   W7ith    th'   immortals 

rate. 


3ftt  a  Portuguese  <2$arDen        29 


v 


Nor  be  disheartened,  nor  grow  mute  with  pain, 
Because  the  world  is  careless  of  thy  song; 
Sing  on ;  some  one  grown  weary  in  the  throng 
Will  hear  the  Spring's  voice  call  in  every  strain, 
And  breathe  the  scent  of  hyacinths  again, 
And  for  the  burdens  of  the  day  grow  strong. 
Life's  disenchantments  will  be  swept  along, 
But — memories  of  the  hyacinths  will  remain. 
Thou  walk'st  in  garden  of  the  gods,  by  right 
Thou  hast  no  other  choice  than  wander  there, 
And  yet  Gethsemane  is  in  full  sight ; 
Still,  still  unloose  thy  nightingales,  to  bear 
Song's  bleeding  testimony,  it  has  might, 
The  world  to  bless,  if  it  can  ease  despair. 


30        Jn  a  Portuguese  <£>atDert 


VI 


Although  our  ways  awhile  have  lain  apart 

I  have  not  lost  thee,  Sweet:     I  go  my  way 

Holding  thee  dear  as  Aphrodite,  may 

Feeling  the  grace  of  thy  serener  heart. 

My  thoughts  keep  pace  with  thee,  where'er  thou 

art 

I  know  with  what  high  rapture  thou  wilt  stay 
To  watch  the  golden-hearted  lilies  sway 
And  see  the  blushes  on  the  hawthorne  start— 
And  so  thou  art  still  mine ;  I  follow  thee 
Seeing  thee  not ;  Yet  when  soft  gusts  of  rain 
Tangled  with  sunshine,  borne  from  off  the  sea 
Shall  wet  thy  cheek,  ere  it  has  dried  again 
However  dull  with  weeping  I  may  be 
I  shall  feel  April  in  my  every  vein. 


Kn  a  Iportugue0e  (SarDen        si 


VII 


I  know  not  Sweet,  nor  do  I  seek  to  know 
Wherefore  thou  sets  this  April  day  apart 
If  kneeling  at  some  shrine  thou  bar'st  thy  heart 
In  adoration  or  to  ease  its  woe 
If  tears  of  rapture  or  of  anguish  flow 
But  whichso'er  it  be,  I  know  thou  art 
Feeling  the  might  of  Spring,  needing  no  chart 
To  lead  thee  to  its  earliest  flowers  that  blow : — 
— I  pray  thou  be  exalted  as  on  wing 
The  swallows  are,  and  that  thy  soul  may  share 
In  the  mysterious  melody  of  Spring 
And  of  its  lilies,  thou  the  one  most  fair 
How  should'st  forget  that  every  living  thing 
Must  breathe,  'neath  Crown  or  Cross  the  Christ 
breathed  air. 


32        Jn  a  Portuguese  Garden 

VIII 

Or  if  thou  goest  not  forth,  but  calm  and  still 

Shall  at  thy  window  watch  the  sunset  hour 

And  see  the  West  burst  into  splendid  flower 

Spreading  the  heavens  like  a  vast  daffodil 

And  with  the  glory  of  it  brim'st,  until 

Thy  happy  tears  shall  fall  in  sudden  shower 

Though  in  another  continent,  some  power 

Would  bear  me  into  weeping,  at  its  will. 

For  as  to  desert,  sound  of  waters  flow, 

I  can  sometimes  when  listening,  hear  divine 

The  music  of  a  far  off  rhythm,  I  know 

Is  beating  hither  from  thy  heart  to  mine 

And  hold  thee  still,  for  were  Pan's  reed  to  blow 

What  tunes  it  played,  were  less  to  me  than  thine. 


a     ortiiiie0e  ®arDen        33 


IX 


Or  in  the  ineffable  sweet  charm  of  June 

When  butterflies  shall  drift  above  thy  hair 

With  its  pale  gold,  their  pinions  to  compare 

And  thou  seest  filmed  up  on  the  sapphire  noon 

The  silver  wraith  of  the  unrisen  moon 

And  through  the  haze  of  heat,  adown  the  air 

The  zenithed  sun  its  lute-strings  shall  declare 

If  thou  hear'st  then  their  silence  pulse  to  tune 

I  in  some  lonely  dell,  although  remote, 

With  the  soft  sunshine  shimmering  on  the  ground 

Shall  hear  the  same  soft  measures,  note  by  note 

In  murmurs  indistinguishable  around 

And  while  the  butterflies  above  me  float 

Who  cannot  lose  thee,  in  the  noontide  drowned. 


34        3n  a  Portuguese 


Thou  lookest  forth  on  Summer  and  seeing  gleams 
Of  sky,  and  sea,  and  grass,  and  shining  dew, 
And  roses,  and  the  sun,  whose  red  they  drew. 
Thou  hast  the  fabric  for  a  thousand  dreams. 
Thou    turn'st     to    Winter    and    when    sapphire 

streams 

Across  the  snow  until  it  reeks  with  blue, 
Watching  and  sighing  as  it  fades  from  view, 
Behold  the  mirror  of  thy  soul  redeems. 
Worship  thine  ^Eschylus  and  all  the  old, 
Illustrious    Greeks    whom    thou    hast    loved    and 

read ; — 

Thou  hast  swept  high,  nor  let  ideals  grow  cold, 
And  Nature's  very  self  interpreted. 
Keep  of  thy  hyacinthine  dreams  fast  hold, 
The   gods   have   dowered   thee,  though  gods   are 

dead. 


a  Portuguese  (DarUen 


XI 


Or    shouldst    thou   pluck   those   nurslings    of   the 

skies 

The  Autumn  gentians  that  in  shadows  hide 
And  wear  them  with  the  sunshine  glorified 
A  sudden  gladness  would  my  heart  surprise 
And  from  to-morrows  I  should  turn  mine  eyes 
And  things  of  yesterday  should  set  aside 
And  the  new  gladness  with  the  old  allied 
Would  set  as  corner-stone  of  Paradise 
For  into  Music's  exaltations  sent 
From  some  far  peak  I  hear  thy  throbbing  lyre 
Within  whose  soul  such  visions  vast  are  pent 
Whose  blood  with  Beauty's  wine  is  so  on  fire ; 
With  less  for  thee,  I  should  not  be  content 
Than  the  full  heavens  that  the  high  gods  aspire. 


36        an  a  Portuguese 


XII 

The  Autumn's  shadow-haunted  sunshine  lies 
Trembling  upon  the  sycamore  trees,  that  show 
Myriads  of  seeds,  within  whose  delicate  glow 
The  shining  bloom  of  coming  April  lies  ; 
Thou   brought'st   a   broken   branch   to   point   its 

dyes 

Oh  best  beloved,  to  me,  who  fain  would  know 
The  secret,  hidden  in  all  the  things  that  grow 
Of  that  mysterious  power  that  never  dies. 
Ah,  it  is  dreamers,  Sweet,  that  hear  like  thee 
The  million  frozen  murmurs  'neath  the  snow 
And  send  them  into  measures  wild  and  free 
That  with  the  winged  seeds  through  the  ether  go 
Sailing  the  universe,  until  it  be 
The  unborn  blossoms  into  lyrics  blow. 


a  Portuguese  (garden        37 


XIII 

And  though  the  winds  that  blow  thine  hair  are 

cold, 

Thou  watchest  still,  while  paler  sunsets  shine, 
And  the  undazzling  noons,  November's  sign 
No  longer  blaze  up  with  their  fires  of  gold 
Thou  seest  the  naked  trees  and  sodden  mold 
And  yet  still  holdest  Nature's  heart  divine 
And  makest  it,  so  exquisitely  thine 
Its  mystic  changes  on  thine  own  are  scrolled. 
For  dead  leaves  matted  in  the  ways  forlorn 
Not  dead  leaves  are  to  thee,  but  bridal  bed 
From  whence  a  rose  some  iridescent  morn 
Ablush  with  June,  will  lift  its  radiant  head:  — 
And  thou  sing'st  on,  despite  the  wild-flowers  gone 
Not  of  what  is,  but  what  shall  be,  instead. 


38        Un  a  Portugum  <£>arDen 

XIV 

The  Winter  days  go  all  unheeded  by 

In  ruthless  order,  while  thou  sit'st  alone 

In  an  enchanting  Summer  of  thine  own, 

Dreaming  perchance  of  mystic  shores  that  lie 

Kissed  by  the  transcendent  Nile,  or  birds  that  fly 

Flaming  through  Lesbian  air,  or,  tropic  blown, 

Stretches  of  lilies,  swept  by  warm  winds,  grown 

Into  white  crested  seas  that,  lute  souled,  sigh. 

Ah  Sweet,  I  cannot  follow  thee  in  flight 

Whose  rainbow  visions  are  forever  nigh. 

I  can  but  watch  thee  as  thou  cleav'st  the  light, 

Winging  thy  way  the  Sun's  heart  to  descry, 

And  listen  as  thou  shakest  from  thy  height 

The  everlasting  music  of  the  sky. 


Jfn  a  Portuguese  <2>atDen        39 


xv 


But  not  alone  when  the  day's  pageants  woo 
Thou  art  inspired,  Sweet,  but  when  the  night 
Like  a  great  sable  butterfly  in  flight 
Trails  its  mysterious  wings  across  the  blue 
And  one  by  one,  thou  see'st  the  stars  prick  through 
And  the  red  moon  climb  up  its  scarlet  height 
Then  thou  so  smitten  with  rapture  at  the  sight 
Turnest  to  heaven,  thy  winged  thoughts  to  pur 
sue — . 

And  we  who  read  thy  verses'  martial  flow, 
Are  onward  borne  as  at  a  drum-beat's  sign 
And  feel  the  red  moon's  efflorescent  glow 
And,  see,  in  fire  of  some  majestic  line 
In  the  horizoned  splendor  dropt  below, 
The  rings  of  planets  and  the  Pleiades  shine. 


40        3n  a  Portuguese  Garden 

XVI 

The  storm-racked  wind  is  blowing  o'er  the  trees 

Shaking  their  naked  branches  into  threat 

Fierce-voiced  as  if  it  held  the  world's  regret 

And  its  immeasurable  agonies. 

I  know  not  if  thou  see'st  it  lash  the  seas 

And  art  with  a  vast  restlessness  beset 

Or  if,  calm-souled,  thou  hear'st  not  their  fret 

And   weav'st   thy   rhymes,   fanned  by   a   Summer 

Breeze. 

In  that  dream-held  elysian  region,  far 
From  wind,  and  storm,  and  seas,  and  threats  of  ill, 
Thou  dwellest,  shining  like  a  flowering  star 
Striking  out  music  from  the  heavens  at  will 
And  in  some  golden  strain,  some  magic  bar 
Will  the  stars'  lyric  destiny  fulfill. 


3n  a  Portuguese  Parpen        41 

XVII 

Thine  eyes,  Beloved,  turn  from  material  things, 
Dear,  happy  eyes,  like  gentians  in  the  sun 
Cloudless  as  skies  when  Summer  has  begun 
That  see  in  common  air  the  glint  of  wings 
To  thee,  the  clamor  of  the  city  brings 
No  joy,  but  sight  of  some  great  cloud  o'er  run 
With  deeps  of  purple  when  the  day  is  done 
Bears  out  thy  soul  beyond  the  rim  it  clings 
Lonely  thou  art,  though  in  the  crowded  street. 
Lonely  like  that  transcendent  flower  that  grows 
On    Alpine   Peak.     Thou   hear'st,    through   deaf- 

'ning  beat 

Of  gathering  noise  that  on  around  thee  goes 
Strains  wafted  through  Olympia,  it  is  meet 
Thou,  Sweet,  shouldst  roam,  who  wearst  the 

Pierian  rose. 


4#        3n  a  Portuguese  harden 

XVIII 

Singer  and  Dreamer,  that  watchest  day  by  day 
The  world's  great  movements,  hearing  praise  and 

blame  , 

Accorded  creeds,  and  noting  sunrise  flame 
Of  larger  thought — smiling  thou  turn'st  away 
From  Time's  events,  more  clearly  to  survey 
Men  who  have  shaped  them,  daring  to  make  claim 
If  to  untangle  continents  their  aim 
They  would  restore  them  each  to  olden  sway : 
And  yet  with  mighty  things  so  intimate 
I  wonder  not,  O  Singer,  thou  should'st  turn, 
Other  than  vanished  dynasties  to  rate, 
Who  canst  with  vision  of  the  Seer,  discern, 
The  ageless  Sphinx  that  sits  at  Egypt's  gate 
Is  less  a  marvel,  than  the  Spring's  return. 


Jn  a  Pottugue0e  harden        43 

XIX 

I  know  not  what  thou  dreamst  these  heavenly  days 
If  of  the  nightingales  that  sing  afar 
Upon  the  Roman  hills  or  of  some  star 
That  trembles  on  the  morning's  chrysoprase. 
If  of  the  sun-gods  breathe,  that  blows  the  haze 
'Bove  the  out-going  ocean  past  the  bar 
Or  of  his  throned  approach  that  leaves  ajar 
The  horizon's  gates  and  sets  the  dawn  ablaze. 
Nay,  chance  with  none  of  these  wouldst  be  con 
tent 

For,  flaming  with  unreached  ideals,  thy  soul 
Up-winging  from  its  earthly  battlement ; 
On  some  diviner  height  may  read  the  scroll 
Writ  in  the  Eternal's  language,  and  be  bent 
Only  on  dreaming  of  the  perfect  goal. 


44       an  a  Portuguese 


xx 

And  thou  who  holdst  thine  ear  to  heart  of  things, 
I  envy  thee,  who  knowst  how  all  supreme 
Are  Nature's  secrets,  and  has-t  power  to  dream, 
When    Spring   is   not,    the    sound   of   blue-bird's 

wings, 

The  brimming  measure  of  the  joy  it  brings, 
And  canst  to  Winter's  frozen  soul  redeem 
The  mighty  music  of  some  rushing  stream 
Wherein  June  lies  in  every  tune  it  plays 
Yet  though  I  also  know  thou  must  hear  sighs 
Of  dying  summers,  and  the  whir  in  air 
Of  some  last  swallow  as  it  outward  flies 
I  envy  thee  not  less,  who  hast  had  share 
In  the  whole  scale  of  knowledge,  and  hast  grown 

wise 
Knowing  infinities  thou  couldst  ensnare. 


a  Portuguese  <$arDen        45 


XXI 

Nothing  can  mar  thy  flights  whose  soul  can  wing 
The  mystic  kingdom  that  is  only  known 
Unto  the  music-visioned  in  it  grown, 
For  swarming  silences  that  crowd  the  spring 
And  sighing  of  its  lilies,  south  winds  swing 
Thou  canst  make  audible  in  ways  thine  own 
And  in  some  lyric  measure  can  enthrone 
Passion,  that  noontides  to  the  Summer  bring 
Therefore  because  this  golden  gift  is  thine, 
I  wonder  not  that  through  thy  verses  stream 
Rapture-like  swish  of  waves  with  light  ashine  ; 
Nor  that,  while  I  am  reading  them,  I  seem 
To  hear  the  ocean  rush  through  every  line, 
Who  hast  transfixed  therein  its  soul  supreme. 


46        3n  a  Pottugue0e 


XXII 

Thou  mak'st  the  place  wherein  thou  dwellest  fair 
Lending  it  grace  like  a  consummate  flower 
And  though  ofttimes  alone,  yet  hour  by  hour 
Amid  thy  books,  boldest  communion  rare 
Chance  with  Theocratus,  and  breath'st  the  air 
In  which  the  high  gods  dwelt,  and  feelest  power 
Of  those   immortal   Greeks,  whose  thoughts   still 

tower 

And  to  the  world,  thought's  deathlessness  declare. 
—  And  when  I  see  thee  with  thy  head  low  bent 
Seeming  to  listen  to  a  murmurous  sound 
Born  in  thy  soul,  like  intimation  sent 
From  April  to  its  wild-flowers  in  the  ground 
I  know,  who  catch  a  violet's  faint  scent 
The  Spring  song  that  eluded  thee,  is  found. 


3n  a  Portuguese  <£arDen        47 

XXIII 

Minstrel  that  hear'st  above  life's  sounding  sea 
A  voice  ethereal  luring  thee  to  wings, 
That  like  a  sunrise-lark  continual  sings 
Till  thou  art  drowned  in  thine  own  ecstasy, 
Drown,  drown  in  it,  for  though  thou  chance  may'st 

be 

Chained  like  a  galley  slave  to  common  things, 
Though    troubled    by    the    wounds    life,    sharp- 

fanged  brings 
Nor   chains   nor   deadliest   wounds    can   vanquish 

thee. 

Oh,  music-hearted — whatever  may  befall, 
Athrob  with  passion  of  divine  unrest, 
Even  Death's  scrutiny  cannot  appall, 
With  that  consummate  rapture  in  thy  breast. 
Some  day,  o'er  flooding  it  will  break  its  thrall 
And  bear  thee  surging  out,  beyond  the  West. 


48 


XXIV 

Mating  with  nature  thou  hast  learned  to  know 
The  secret  solitudes  of  forest  ways 
And  winged  thyself  with  the  wild  wind  that  plays 
The  mountain  bugles  and  the  reeds  below; 
Hast  stood  on  sands  where  pinks  faint  blushing 

grow 

And  looking  at  the  sea,  that  surging  flays 
The  circling  shore  hast  seen  how  it  obeys 
The  everlasting  tides  that  ebb  and  flow. 
Thou  hast  made  Beauty's  radiant  soul  thine  own  ; 
Canst  shine  with  planets,  with  the  sun  up-leap 
And,  wind-winged,  over  mountain  tops  hast  flown 
And  hast  outraptured  in  thine  upward  sweep 
All  music,  save  the  Eternal  undertone 
To  which  thou  singst  beloved,  as  deep  to  deep. 


Jn  a  Portuguese  (Stamen        49 

xxv 

And  sweeter  even  than  the  soft  despair 
That  aspens,  silvering  in  the  summer  sun, 
Thrilled   by   the  rays   that   from   its   gold  heart 

run, 

Melodious  shake  upon  the  rose  flushed  air 
Thy  songs  are  for  the  dead:      Witness  they  bear 
To  thine  exhaustless  love,  as  one  by  one 
I  seem  to  hear  in  every  verse  begun 
Thy    dropping    tears,    drop    from    the    measures 

there ! — 

Oh  nightingale  divine  lamenting,  lo 
Thou  has  shaped  fair  with  classic  grace  thine  own 
A  monument  of  lyrics,  that  will  show 
She  still  lives  on,  into  thy  music  grown 
Whom   Spring  crowned   as   another   Spring,   and 

so 
Will,  long  as  daffodils  shall  bloom,  be  known. 


50        3n  a  Portuguese  (garden 

XXVI 

Dear  Sapphic  Singer  with  thy  gentian  eyes, 
What  holds   thee   captive   through   these  perfect 

days  ? 

For  often  cross  the  morning's  chrysoprase 
I  hear  a  tune  divine  as  that  which  lies 
In  bosom  of  a  star,  athrob  to  rise. 
And  know  it  thine!     What  other  could  appraise 
The  hidden  music  of  the  upper  ways, 
And  snatch  it,  snatch  it  golden  from  the  skies? 
It  is  with  melodies  that  in  thee  grow 
Thou  art  held  captive,  and  not  thou  alone, 
For  always,  always  I  can  hear  them  flow 
Into  that  pulsing  sea  whose  undertone 
On-swelling  through  infinitudes  may  go 
Mighty  with  mighty  music  of  the  throne. 


a  Portuguese  (gattien        51 


XXVII 

Captive  in  radiant  castle  of  thy  dreams, 
The  freedom  of  the  universe  is  thine. 
For  thou  hast  winged  thyself  out  past  the  line 
Into  the  unknown  vast,  upon  which  streams 
The  light  ineffable  whose  dazzling  beams 
Point  through  the  purple  distance,  to  where 
The  jasper  gates  of  song  wherein  divine, 
The  amethystine  air  around  thee  gleams. 
Why  shouldst  regret  the  summer  drifting  by 
Who  can  make  deathless  something  that  it  bore, 
Some  passion  flower,  or  gold-winged  butterfly, 
Or  sunrise,  smoking  on  the  Eastern  shore, 
Why,  O  Beloved,  shouldst  for  summer  sigh, 
Who  can  bring  summer  into  bloom  once  more? 


sa        3n  a  Portuguese  (garden 

XXVIII 

I  may  not  hear  thee  singing  in  the  vast, 

So  dull  mine  ears,  but  some  white  flowering  moon 

May  bring  the  haunting  cadence  of  a  tune 

That  on  the  twilight's  opal  thou  hast  cast, 

I  may  not  hear,  too  far  beyond  thee  passed, 

But  this  my  tribute,  as  a  rose  marks  June, 

As  blushing  coral  signals  a  lagoon, 

Song,  sweet,  is  thine  insignia,  first  and  last ! 

For  spring  is  thine  where  hyacinths  never  die. 

Thou  art  enwinged — thou  art  a  meadow  lark ; 

Thou  art  a  dweller  in  the  upper  sky, 

That  brushing  sunrise,  or  a  rainbow  arc, 

Art  so  ablaze  with  scarlet  ecstasy 

Thou  dropst  thy  fire  of  music  spark  on  spark. 


a  Portuguese  (garden        53 


XXIX 

In  castle  of  thy  dreams  hast  thou  not  found 
Some  place  where  we  could  ponder  well,  as  they 
Who  know  the  heart  of  song,  is  there  no  way 
That  we  can  take  to  conquer  time  and  space 
And  sweep  forever  onward  in  the  race 
Until  we  melt  to  music,  as  a  sound 
Melts  into  glory  of  the  air  around? 
Are  not  the  souls  of  things,  the  souls  that  stay 
The  things  imperishable  for  which  we  pray? 
Holdst    thou    not    key    to    song    who    art    song 

crowned? 

And  yet  I  hold  belief  the  eternal  flows 
Into  the  singer  with  the  song,  0  Sweet, 
And  that  some  coming  lyric  will  disclose, 
So  near,  so  near  to  Heaven  thy  wings  may  beat, 
The  golden  rippling  of  its  air  that  blows 
The  golden  rhythm  of  its  seraphs'  feet. 


54        an  a  Portuguese  ®atDen 

xxx 

August  has   come  with  its  mysterious  mist, 

Thou  lover  of  the  summer,  all  too  soon 

Who  sangst  so  little  time  ago  to  June, 

Holding  high  carnival,  when  it  had  kissed 

Its  first  born  rose ;  and  to  the  amethyst 

That  drowned  its  suns ;  and  to  its  orange  moon, 

Whose  rays,  lute  phantomed,  gave  forth  tune  on 

tune 

The  fireflies  flashing  by  could  not  resist ! 
Yet  thou  wilt  sing,  although  the  rose  be  fled 
Sing  on,  because  thou  hast  the  soul  of  flute ; 
And  thou  wilt  watch  the  vapors  swim  o'erhead, 
With  the  strong  sea  winds  blowing,  in  pursuit, 
And  sudden,  seeing  the  universe  blush  red, 
And  the  gauze  wrecks  burn  by,  how  canst  be  mute? 


a  Portuguese  <$ar&en        55 


XXXI 

And  ere  thou  knowest  summer  will  be  gone 

And  melodies  ethereal,  note  by  note, 

From  souls  of  pines  will  down  the  immenses  float 

And  then  be  into  new  immenses  born: 

And  thou  wilt  see  the  splendor  of  the  morn 

Melt  into  gaugeless  blue,  and  hear,  remote 

Down  from  the  sun's  heart,  from  an  eagle's  throat 

The  revelation  of  its  superb  scorn: 

And  still,  still  singing,  swirling  airs  o'erhead 

Will  bear  thy  songs  out  past  the  banking  flame, 

And  it  will  echo  on,  till  time  is  dead  : 

Ah,   unto   thee,   whose   heart   the   spring's   might 

shame, 

What  matter  when  the  summer's  days  are  told, 
Who  canst  eternities  of  transport  claim? 


BOOK  III 
HEXAMETERS 


TO  A  DREAMER  OF  HIGH  DREAMS 

YOUTH  in  thine  own  youth  triumphant,  who  hast 

heard  life  like  a  siren, 
Luring  thee  on  through  the  mornings,  on  through 

the  daisy-crowned  valleys, 
Over  which  butterflies   shimmer,   on  through  the 

lily-blown  meadows 
Over  which  larks  break  to  singing  on  through  the 

outstretching  highways, 
And  through  the  wild-rose  lit  byways,  up  to  the 

summits  of  mountains, 
Breasting  the  sun  at  the  noontides,  down  on  the 

shore  silver  shining 
Watching  the  moon  climb  the  sea,  hast  thou  not 

grown  to  the  knowledge, 
However    complex    creation,    Thought    nor    e'en 

Science  can  answer 
Wherefore  from  wombs   of   abysses,  planets   and 

stars  to  the  sky-fields 
New-born  shall  leap  into  shining,  hast  thou  not 

grown  to  the  knowledge 

Infinite   beauty   pervades    it,   Infinite   Love   over 
looks  it, 
Infinite  Love  underlies  it,  and  hast  not  then  thy 

soul  risen 
Risen  as  winged  like   an  eagle,  up   and   still  up 

through  the  ether, 

59 


6o        3fn  a  Pottugue0e 


Till  at  a  breath  from  Jehovah,  thou  knowst  where 

fore  thy  being, 
Wherefore  the  thoughts  that  uplifted,  wherefore 

wast  made  in  His  image, 
And  that  aspiring  divinely  only  to  heights  that 

are  gaugeless, 
Only  to  beauty  eternal,  growing  as  part  of  cre 

ation, 
Intimate   with    the   immenses,   hearing   the   winds 

and  the  waters, 
Calling  to  thee  as  replying  to  thy  soul's  high  im- 

ploration 
For  the  supreme  flower  of  wisdom,  still  with  the 

silent  voice  calling 
If  hast  through  self-abnegation,   climbed  to   the 

truths  that  are  deathless 
Building   a   "holy  of  holies,"   vaultless   and  vast 

as  forever 

Thou  through  the  breath  that  was  blown  thee 
Manifold  miracles  shown  thee,  if  thou  shalt  walk 

forth  unspotted, 
Mayst  become  leader   and  prophet,   through  the 

Jehovah  in  thee. 


3n  a  Portugue0e  <gatDen        ei 

TO  A  STAR 

SWEET,  who  in  splendor  of  living  hast  thine  own 

longing  transcended 
Taught  by  the  visions  of  poets,  Milton  and  Dante 

and  Homer 
Breathed  the  same  ether  the  gods  breathed,  and 

their  Olympia  known 
How  shall  I  dare  to  confront  thee?     Lost  in  the 

wastes  of  the  desert 
What  can  I  show  thee  to  win  thee,  who  can  bring 

nothing  but  weeping? 
Will  not  from  lightning  within  thee,  dark  of  my 

being  disown? 
Thou  hast  gained  measureless  knowledge,  soared 

with  the  nightingales  singing 
Listened  and  grown  to,  and  joined  in,  rush  of  the 

fathomless  ocean 
Taken  thy  place  with  the  planets,  intimate  grown 

with  the  sun. 
What   shall  I  show   thee  to  win  thee,  thou  with 

Immensities  racing 

I,  with  my  broken  wings  trailing,  seeking  to  fol 
low  and  find  thee 
Only  this  one  rapture  left  me,  triumph  at  goal 

thou  hast  won. 
Day  by   day  growing  diviner  thou  hast  gained 

stature  of  sages 
Broken  through  infinite  boundries  into  the  infinite 

spaces 


a 


Melted    to    music    above    thee,    borne    nor    from 

land  nor  from  sea, 
What  can  I  bring  thee  to  win  thee,  I  with  my 

broken  wings  trailing? 
Yet  if  thou  backward  shall  beckon,  love  that  lies 

wounded,  will  heal  me 
And  from  the  heart  of  the  desert,  Sweet,  I  shall 

climb  toward  thee. 


Jin  a  J2ortugue0e  <$arDen        63 


A  LETTER  FROM  A  STAR 

NEWS  from  the  mystic  Immenses  borne  from  the 
heavens  unhorizoned, 

Sweeter  than  nightingale's  transports,  sheathed 
in  the  soul  of  a  sunrise 

Quickens  my  soul  and  bears  it  up  to  where 
speech  is  forgotten 

Up  to  where  visions  ethereal,  grow  to  divine  rev 
elations 

Up  to  the  center  of  ether  blazing  with  breath  of 
archangels 

That  through  the  universe  streaming  circles  in 
vast  radiations, 

Bearing  the  rapture  of  ages,  on  to  the  rapture 
in  thee. 

Swept  on  invisible  pinions  up  through  the  fath 
omless  azure 

Into  the  vaultless  resplendence,  thou  shalt  bear 
message  from  Eden 

Born  in  the  bosoms  of  seraphs,  filled  with  a  mighty 
rejoicing 

Set  to  magnificent  silence  of  the  Ineffable's  foot 
falls 

Thou  hast  borne  message  from  Eden,  that  shall 
proclaim  thee  immortal ; 

All  that  is  now,  and  that  has  been,  thou  shalt  in 
fullness  partake  of. 

Knowledge  of  this  world,  the  age  of,  and  of  the 
worlds  that  are  ageless, 


a  Pottugue0e 


Thou   sha.lt  partake  of  insatiate,  till  thou  hast 

found  the  Eternal 
And    through    eternities,    boundless,    measureless 

triumph  be  thine. 

Golden  abysses  of  sunshine,  whirlwinds  of  flower 

exaltations 
They    shall   be   thine    to    embathe   in,   when    with 

Life's  heat  thou  art  fainting 
Winds  that  bear  bloom  to  the  Summer,  thou  shalt 

have  strength  to  outride  them 
Noontides    that   halo    the   mountains,   thou    shalt 

dream  dreams  to  eclipse  them 
All  that  now  is,  and  that  has  been,  Beauty  incar 

nate  of  ages 
Beauty  and  knowledge  and  myst'ry  into  thy  soul 

shall  be  added 
Till  in  the  splendor  of  promise,  what  thou  hast 

grown  to,  shall  wing  thee 
And  thou  shalt  out-pace  the  planets,  rays  of  the 

sun  shall  out-dazzle 
And  through  the  vast  of  Forever,  mount  to  the 

Infinite  breast. 


a     ortuue0e  (SarHen        6s 


A  SUMMER  FANTASY 

BREATHING  the  perfumes  of  wildwoods  wafted  on 

winds  of  the  morning, 
Wooed   from   the  dazzle   of  sunshine,  into   the 

violet  shade  ; 
Heard  I  the  harps   of  the  summer,  nor  could  I 

listening  discover, 
Mingling  with  splashing  of  fountains,  drowned 

by  the  birds  in  the  glade 
Smitten  with  music  of  aspens,  what  were  the 

tunes  that  they  played. 

Over  the  delicate  mosses  into  a  pathway  elysian, 
Where  in  ineffable  beauty  star  blossoms  cluster 

ing  grew, 
Wandered  I,  farther  and  farther,  till  in  the  heart 

of  the  forest, 
Into    a    silence   exalted    reaching   aloft    to    the 

blue, 

Swept    into    measureless     rapture,     Spirit    of 
Summer  I  knew. 

Never  a  crimson  bird  rustled,  never  a  bee  stung 

a  rose  leaf, 
Infinite    stretches    of    azure    motionless    trees 

overtopped  ; 
Noiseless   the   sunlight   they  filtered,   mingled   its 

gold  with  the  shadows, 


66        3n  a  Portuguese 


Noiseless    the    needles    of   pine    trees    into    the 

radiance  dropped; 
Down  in  the  heart  of  the  forest,  even  its  beat 

ing  had  stopped. 

Then    while    I    waited    expectant,    down    from    a 

mountain  she  called  me  ; 
Harp  after  harp  she  touched  lightly  as  in  her 

splendor  she  came  ; 
Sudden    the    fountains    'gan    splashing,    crimson 

birds  climbing  the  ether, 
Left  on  the  sky  as  they  neared  it  winging  re 

flections  of  flame, 

And   on   the   brims   of   the   roses,   bees    sipp'd 
their  nectar  the  same. 

Spake  I,  thou  canst  not  escape  me,  Summer,  thou 

vision  ethereal  ; 
Thou    art   the   fern   leaf's   resplendence   trans 

fixed  with  dewdrops  ashine; 
Thou  art  incarnate  of  music,  harps  of  the  uni 

verse  playing; 
Thou  art  incarnate  of  silence,  than  all  its  tunes 

more  divine, 

Thou  art  the  earth's  efflorescence,  thou  art  the 
blush  of  its  wine. 

Never  again  shalt  escape  me,  thou  art  my  cap 

tive  forever; 

For  at  the  altar  of  silence  down  in  the  violet 
glade 


Jn  a  Portugue0e  <$arDen        67 

was    baptized    in    thy    beauty,    knew    by    that 

measureless  rapture 
As    thine   invisible   pinions    swepst   down    from 

mountain  to  glade, 
Thou  wert  the  harps  and  the  harpist ;  yea,  and 

the  tunes  that  were  played. 


68        3n  a  Portuguese  <$arUen 


WINDS  OF  THE  SUMMER 


WINDS  of  the  Summer  are  blowing  over  the  daisy- 
lit  meadows, 

Tossing  them,  sprinkling  the  grasses,  into  a  sea 

of  white  billows, 

Shaking   the    pink    of    the    hawthorn    into    the 
sheen  of  the  light ; 

Bearing  the  perfumes   of  roses  out  through  the 
golden-lit  spaces, 

Flirting  their  way  through  the  forests,  searching 

the  flower-hidden  places, 

Wings  of  the  wild  birds   outstripping,  tireless 
they  go  on  their  flight. 

Wandering  o'er  vivid  green  lowlands,  fanning  the 

streams  into  ripple, 
Wafting    the    sun-flooded    willows    into    enphan- 

tomed  resplendence, 
Warm   with  the  breath   of  the   tropics,  borne 

from  the  South  and  the  West, 
Chasing  from  shore  to  the  ocean,  farther  and  still 

farther  winging, 
Lured  by  the  voices  of  sirens,  down  in  its  shining 

deeps  singing, 
Feathering  its  spray  into  rainbow's  kiss  they 

the  blue  on  its  breast. 


3)n  a  Portuguese  (SfrarDen        69 

Out  from  immensities  calling,  swept  from  beyond 

the  horizon, 
Whispering  low  as  they  pass  me,  melodies  never 

forgotten, 
Blow  they  from  dazzle  of  mountains,  down  to 

the  heart  of  the  sea : 
Blow  they,  how  far  past  the  sunpeaks,  Love  has 

been  winged  to  o'ertake  them — 
Blow  they   from  deeps   in  the  sea's  heart — Love 

has  known  raptures  that  shake  them — 
Blow  where  they  will,  they  but  blow  back  souls 

of  divine  years  to  me. 

II 

Borne  on  the  wings  of  a  sunrise  over  the  moun 
tains  and  valleys 

Rushing  with  rosy  insistence  into  the  white  arms 
of  day, 

Greeted  by  chorus  of  wild  birds,  bugled  by  mighty 
voiced  waters, 

Summer  the  herald  of  beauty,  Summer  the  happy 
souled  virgin, 

Comes  from  the  kiss  of  the  Spring  time,  drop 
ping  her  flowers  by  the  way. 

Fanned  by  the  butterflies  winging,  lulled  by  the 
bees  'mong  the  lilies 

Shaking  her  hair  in  the  noontides  golden  as  fleece 
of  the  Sun. 

Gliding  through  silver  of  moonlights  into  the  pur 
ple  starred  midnights, 


TO        3n  a  Portugue0e 


Summer  the  herald  of  beauty,  Summer  the  happy 

souled  virgin 
Dreams,  while  her  own  crimson  currents  into  the 

roses'  hearts  run. 
Breathing  the  breath  of  the  south  wind  tranced 

with  the  sky's  yearning  azure, 
Child  of  the  Summers,  since  chaos,  clad  in  divine- 

ness  as  they 
Hearing  the  echoes  of  music  piped  forth  by  Pan 

since  creation, 
Summer,  the  herald  of  beauty,  Summer  the  happy 

souled  virgin 
Comes  with  the  songs  of  the  ages,  singing  them  all 

on  her  way. 

Ill 

Down    past    the    golden-lit    meadows,    rivers    are 

languorous  murmuring, 
Out  from  the  deeps  of  the  forests,  breath  of  the 

pine  trees  is  blown, 
Clouds  of  the  morning  are  rose  drenched,  noon 

tides   are   swooning  with   silence, 
Day   dreams   have   silvered   the  daisies,   starlight 

has  flowered  to  azaleas, 
I  can  hear  Summer's  voice  clamor  —  why  art  thou 

silent,  mine  own? 
Buttercups  toss   in  the  sunshine  ;   cloud  shadows 

float  o'er  the  grasses  ; 
Hills  like  a  necklace  of  sapphire  lie  on  the  breast 

of  the  sky  ; 


Jtt  a  Portuguese  ®atDen        71 

Lured   by   the   trumpet   flower's    color,   humming 

birds  thither  are  darting; 
Leaves    with   the   light    overladen,    quivering    are 

borne  into  music; 
I   can  hear   Summer's   voice   clamor — can   I  the 

Summer  deny? 


IV 

Onto  my  soul,  quick  with  longing,  Art  thou,  I 
cried  out,  a  craven? 

Hark  to  the  million  voiced  chorus  calling  thee 
forth  from  the  night! 

Borrow  the  wings  of  the  lightning,  mount  up  aloft 
like  the  eagle; 

Thou  hast  been  drunken  with  sorrow,  drink  thou 
to-day  of  the  glory; 

Thou  has  been  vestured  in  sackcloth,  wrap  thy 
self  round  with  the  light. 

Shake  off  the  chill  of  the  grave-damps,  thou  shalt 

be  captive  no  longer; 
Make  thyself  part  of  the  ocean  rushing  in  might 

to  the  shore, 
Learn     thou     its     undertones'     rapture;     sweep 

with  the  winds  o'er  its  vastness ; 
Compass   the   heavens   with   thy   daring;    outride 

the  sun  in  its  coursing; 
Wheel  with  the  stars  in  their  orbits ;  thou  shalt 

be  trammeled  no  more. 


72        Jn  a  Portuguese 


Speed    o'er    the    purple    of    sunsets    faster    than 

clouds  in  their  sailing; 
Speed  in  the  arms  of  the  Summer  up  to  earth's 

uttermost  height  ; 
Thou   shalt   discover  life's   secrets,   for   thou   art 

born  of  Jehovah  ; 
Thou  hast  been  drunken  with  sorrow,  thou  shalt 

be  drunken  with  glory  ; 
Thou  hast  been  vestured  in  sackcloth  —  thou  shalt 

be  winged  with  the  light. 


flit  a  Portuguese  ®arften        73 

TO  AN  OCTOBER  SOUTH  WIND 

SOUTH  WIND,  o'erladen  with  perfume,  blown  from 

the  damp  of  the  marshes, 
Drifting  out  over  the  ocean,  lying  in  measureless 

rest, 
Thou  who  elusive  and  free  wert  passionate  soul 

of  the  summer 
Breath  that  awakened  the  wild  rose,  springing  to 

bloom  on  its  breast, 
Hast  thou,  the  summer  lamenting,   come,  of  the 

summer  in  quest? 
South  Wind,   in  vain   thou  wilt   search   through 

torches   that  flare   in   the   forests 
And  through  the  sublimate  sunshine  flaunting  its 

gold  on  the  ground ; 
Thou  mayst  search  blaze  of  the  hilltops,  sylvan 

dells  hidden  in  valleys, 
Yet,  though  the  soul  of  the  summer,  since  from 

the  summer  unbound, 
Thou  mayst  wing  uttermost  places,  summer  will 

never  be  found. 

South  Wind,  October  is  flinging  banners  exultant 

to  hail  thee, 
Thou,   who   canst   sport   with    the     cloud    hosts, 

glitt'ring  o'er  land  and  o'er  main, 
Canst  thou  not,  past  the  horizon,  bring  through 

its  purple  enrimming 


74        3Jn  a  }portugue0e  garden 

Out  from  the  luminous  silence,  what  I  have  lis 
tened  in  vain — 

Voice  of  unspeakable  rapture  borne  from  Love's 
infinite  plane? 


3n  a  Pottugue0e 


LAMENTATION 

"For  there  is  none  among  men  whom  Zeus  appoints  not 
and  wills  to  unmeasured  ills."     Mimnermus,  620  B.C. 

DOWN  through  the  ages  are  rolling  infinite  woes 

of  the  people  ; 
Sound  of  the  measureless  weeping,  drenching  the 

earth  since  creation, 
Louder  than  wails   from  the  sea's  womb  that  in 

perpetual  travail 
Prest   with   its    neverborn   undertone   sobs   in   its 

consummate   anguish, 
Out  of  the  pits  that  ye  live  in  born  of  the  outcasts 

of  Eden, 
Monarchs    of    agonies    mighty   crowned   with   the 

blood  sweat  of  living, 
Come    forth,   O   mortals,    and   listen    clad   in   the 

ashes  of  mourners 
For   till   in   grave   damps    ye   molder,   hiding   ye 

cannot  escape  it. 

For  ye  are  part  of  the  chorus  swelling  the  vast 

lamentation 
Mad  to  discover  the  secrets  nailed  up  in  coffins 

forever, 
Stung  with   the  fangs   of  remembrance  poisoned 

with  impotent  longings, 
Writhing   with    passions    of    music    strangled    to 

discord  in  utterance, 
This   is  the  doom  ye  inherit,  scourged  with  the 

scourge  of  the  Human, 


76        3n  a  Portuguese 


This  is  the  doom  ye  inherit,  clad  in  the  ashes  of 

mourners, 
While    with    the   universe    battling,    though   with 

but   death  to  be  victors, 
Ye  shall  increase  the  vibrations  borne   from  de 

spairs   of  the  millions. 

Reeking  with  black  desolation  into  the  chaos  of 

meanings 
Ye   shall   hurl   cries    of   your   torments,   as    from 

the  still  undelivered  ; 
This  is  the  doom  ye  inherit,  born  of  the  outcasts 

of  Eden, 
Tissues    of    souls    shall    be    tested    till    they    are 

strained  to  their  utmost; 
Ye  shall  dig  pits  that  ye  live  in  with  the  swords 

drawn  from  your  vitals  ; 
For  ye  are  monarchs  of  agonies  crowned  with  the 

blood  sweat  of  living, 
And  ye  shall  never  know  triumph  till  ye  are  loosed 

from  Time's  fetters, 
And  ye  shall  never  know  rapture  till  in  Eternity's 

bosom. 


3ftt  a  Portuguese  (SatDen        77 

A  RHAPSODY 

LISTLESSLY  watching  the  Pleiades  breasting 
Night's  ebb  tide  superbly, 

Lo  in  the  east  came  hint  of  the  sun ;  and  the  soul 
of  the  morning 

Swept  into  mine  like  an  eagle,  and  with  its  jubi 
lant  courage 

Down  from  the  winds  I  drew  joy  of  the  hills ;  and 
the  breath  of  the  daisies 

Lifted  me  upward  exultant ;  and  what  had  held 
me  in  bondage 

I  in  the  swirl  of  morning  forgot ;  and  I  broke 
loose  from  Sorrow, 

Saying:  "Ye  chain  me  no  longer,  for  I  am 
winged  with  the  summer; 

Yea,  and  am  drunken  with  glory  of  day,  for 
like  wine  in  its  foaming 

Red  with  the  bubbles  of  sunrise,  beaded  and  spar 
kling  I  quaff  it. 

And  I  am  whirled  through  the  air  like  a  bird,  and 
I  hear  in  the  spaces 

Voices  of  murmuring  rivers  swelling  to  articula 
tion, 

Till  in  the  rush  of  seas  I  rejoice;  and  the  sky  and 
the  mountains 

However  distant  I  scale  them,  nor  can  the  white 
clouds  outsail  me; 

For  behold  I  can  speed  with  the  light,  and  the 
universe  round  me 


78        3n  a  Portuguese 


Melts  to  the  universe  in  me."     Soul,  O  my  soul 

pierced  with  Morning, 
Sight  of  the  sun  is  less  than  thou  cravest  ;   for 

with  measureless  longing 
Thou  hast  outridden  the  Pleiades  and  swept  past 

Night  of  lamenting; 
Yet,  though  thy  rapture  of  wings  has  been  brief, 

thou  hast  outgrown  the  eagles. 


3n  a  Portuguese  (garPen        79 

FREE 

SOUL,  I  have  broken  my  fetters,  Summer  has  lent 
me  its  pinions, 

And  with  the  winds  I  am  sporting,  sweeping  the 
harps  of  the  forests, 

And  with  the  clouds  I  am  sailing  azure  that  edges 
the  sea ; 

Breasting  its  rainbow-capped  billows,  hearing  its 
undertone's  secrets, 

Breaking  out  past  the  horizon  into  the  infinite 
vastness. 

Soul,  I  am  reckless  with  Summer ;  Soul,  for  to 
day  I  am  free. 

I  can  hear  soundless  vibrations,  rising  and  falling 
like  music, 

Making  the  sublimate  silence  splendid  with  rap 
ture  of  rhythm, 

For  I  am  one  with  the  noontide  and  with  the  glory 
to  be, 

One  with  the  sun  at  its  zenith;  I  am  ablaze  with 
its  shining; 

I  can  look  down  on  the  hilltops,  mount  up  out 
stripping  the  eagles. 

Soul,  I  am  drunken  with  Summer ;  Soul,  for  to 
day,  I  am  free. 


so        3ln  a  Portugue0e 


What  though  to-morrow  I  go  back,   torn   from 

the  measureless   glory, 
Back  to  the  pit  of  the  human,  clad  in  the  vesture 

of  sorrow, 
Sailing    no    more    o'er    the    azure,    breasting    no 

longer  the  sea? 
I  have  known  transport  of  pinions,  and  though 

the  Summer  deny  me 
Anguish   that   slays    me   shall   wing   me,   nothing 

shall  hold  me  in  bondage. 
Soul,  I  shall  still  traverse  kingdoms  ;  Soul,  I  have 

learned  to  be  free. 


3in  a  Portuguese  <SarDen        si 

TO  THE  EAGLE 

EAGLE  that  mountest  exultant  searching  the 
uttermost  places 

Making  the  motionless  silence  quiver  with  rush  of 
thy  pinions, 

Winging  the  golden  rimmed  mornings,  sailing  the 
purple  lit  twilights 

Plunging  through  glory  of  noon-tides  into  the 
day,  snowy  blossomed, 

Beating  out  past  the  horizon,  racing  with  clouds 
as  they  run 

Breasting  the  solitudes  virgin,  circling  o'er  fore 
heads  of  mountains 

Hovering  the  shadows  abysmal  gathered  in  fis 
sures  and  chasms 

Light  from  thy  bladed  wings  spilling  over  the 
tops  of  the  forests 

Stern  and  majestic  and  regal,  never  a  bird  to 
approach  thee 

Hast  thou  no  pang  at  thy  loneness,  listening  to 
heart  of  the  sun? 

Never  a  bird  to  approach  thee — all  the  magnifi 
cence  hidden 

Knowledge  of  sublimate  grandeurs,  millions  of 
marvels  primeval 

Traces  of  volcanic  splendors,  tracts  of  impass 
able  ridges 


82        3n  a  }g>ortuguege 


Hast  thou  no  longing  to  share  them,  hast  thou 

no  longing  to  show  them? 
Never  a  bird  to  approach  thee,  never  a  listener 

won 
Too   high    aloft    from   the   meadow   murmurs    to 

hear  of  the  wild  bees 
Exquisite  sighs  of  the  hy'cinths  breathed  at  the 

kiss  of  the  sunshine 
JEolian  stir  of  the  grasses,  silver  regrets  of  the 

aspens 
Or  the  divine  breasted  river  heaving  its  tides  into 

singing 
Hast  thou  no  pang  for  thy  loneness  listening  to 

heart  of  the  sun? 

Eagle  that  mountest  exultant  —  in  the  fierce  joy 

of  thy  daring 
Thou   art  not   conqueror  wholly,   for  while  with 

battling  winds  wearied 
Cradled   in   crag  of   a   boulder  —  up   through  the 

blush  of  the  sunrise 
Up,  through  the  tangles  of  rainbows  dazzling  the 

dawns  of  the  springtime 
Rises  a  lark  that  transfuses  all  its  soul's  infinite 

passion 
Into  aerial  flamed  raptures,  till  the  whole  heav 

ens  are  o'er  run  : 
Thou   who   hast   circled   o'er   forests,    swept    o'er 

the  foreheads  of  mountains, 
Hovered   o'er   shadows   abysmal  beaten   out   past 

the  horizon 


Jfn  a  Portuguese  <$ar&en        ss 

Hast    not    the    lark    overcome    thee?     How    shall 

thou  call  thyself  conqueror 
Who  hast  not  broken   the  blue  through,  with  a 

supreme  exaltation? 
In  the  fierce  joy  of  thy  daring,  never  a  bird  to 

approach  thee 
Always  in  upper  air  sailing,  always  alone  in  thy 

triumphs, 
How  shall  thou  call  thyself  conqueror,  who  hast 

not  swung  into  rhythm 
Who   hast  not   swung  into   rapture,  listening  to 

heart  of  the  sun? 


84        an  a  Portuguese  (garden 

MEMORIAL  DAY 

MARCH  to  the  graves  of  our  soldiers,  ye  who  were 

with  them  in  battle, 
March,  too,  at  sound  of  the  bugles,  ye  of  the  new 

generations, 
And   in   divinest   remembrance    crown    them   with 

lilies  of  May ; 
Ye,  who  were  born  into  freedom,  ye,  who  are  heirs 

to  their  glory, 
Honor   the   dauntless   who   went    forth,  wakened 

from  youth's  golden  dreaming, 
And  the  one  blot  on  our  country,  washed  with 

their  life's  blood  away. 

Pillowed  on  heart  that  they  loved  so,  rest  they  in 
slumber  unbroken ; 

Snows  of  the  winters  have  hushed  them,  winds  of 
the  summers  caressed  them, 

Warm,  as  to  kiss  back  the  wild  flowers,  spring's 
tears  above  them  have  rained; 

Yearn,  O  ye  sunrises,  o'er  them — they  gave  re 
lease  to  the  captives — 

Burn,  O  ye  stars,  as  rejoicing — they  are  enrolled 
with  the  mighty 

Victors  who  died  for  love's  proving,  and  a  new 
country  attained. 


3n  a  Portuguese  <g>arDen        85 

March  to  the  graves  of  our  soldiers,  march  with 
your  crownings  of  lilies  ; 

Voices  of  love  cannot  reach  them  yet,  though 
they  sleep  on  unheeding. 

Millions  unborn  will  proclaim  them,  ages  their 
fame  will  increase ; 

Blow  forth,  ye  bugles,  the  message — they  were 
our  country's  redeemers ; 

Blow  forth,  O  bugles,  the  message,  they  are  be 
loved  of  Immortals : 

It  was  not  Death  overcame  them — it  was  the 
Angel  of  Peace. 


86        3n  a  Portuguese  <$arBen 

THE  LIVING  TO  THE  DEAD 

MEMORIAL  DAY 

COMRADES   that   fell   in  the  battle,  we,  whom  we 

camped  with,  remaining, 
Stand  in  spring's  passionate  sunshine  decking  the 

graves  where  ye  lie 
Listening  to  fife  and  to  drum  beat,  as  when  ye 

once  marched  beside  us, 
And  in  yon  heaven  we  salute  you,  comrades  that 

never  can  die. 

Out  from  the  peace  of  your  households,  crowned 

with  the  splendor  of  manhood, 
Answering  the  call  of  your  country,  holding  its 

sunrise  flag  high, 
Wielding  your  swords   'gainst  oppression  struck 

ye  undaunted   for   freedom, 
And  in  yon  heaven  we  salute  you,  comrades  that 

never  can  die. 

Ah,  ye  had  love  that  was  greatest,  yea,  ye  were 
slaughtered  to  prove  it, 

And  through  the  long  generations,  none  shall 
your  glory  deny ; 

Brothers  of  Christ  in  your  purpose,  brothers  for 
ever  beside  him, 

Lo !  in  yon  heaven  we  salute  you,  comrades  that 
never  can  die. 


In  a  Portuguese  (fcarDen        87 

PEACE 

FROM  the  bugles   that   called  to  the  battle,   and 

the  thud  of  the  armies'  tread ; 
From  the  murderous   swords  uplifted,  with  their 

sharp  blades  running  red; 
From    the    agonized    cries    of    the   wounded,    and 

horses,  trampling  the  dead — 
Lo !   the    sudden    release    of   the   White   Dove    of 

Peace  and  the  blue  of  the  Summer  o'erhead. 

From   the    hidden    mines'    awful    explosions,    and 

cannons'  thundering  boom ; 
From  the  bloody  waves  drinking  the  dying,  and 

the  running  of  Hell's  vast  loom : 
From  the  nations  enwrapt  in  conflict,  and  their 

rulers  enwrapt  in  gloom — 
Lo !    the    sudden    release   of    the   White   Dove    of 

Peace  and  the  lilies   of  Summer  a-bloom. 

From  the  lion-souled  patriots  fighting  no  grim- 
ness  of  Death  could  appall ; 

From  the  mothers  that  went  forth  unweeping, 
and  gave  to  the  Country  their  all, 

With  desolate  hearts  as  of  Rachel,  and  stony 
despairs,  as  of  Saul — 

Lo !  the  sudden  release  of  the  White  Dove  of 
Peace  and  the  whole  world  held  in  thrall. 


88        Jin  a  Portuguese  garden 

From  the  bugles   that  called  to  the  battle  blow 

pasans  to  East  and  to  West 
That  shall  reach  the  Earth's  lowliest  valleys  from 

mountains    supremest    confest, 
That  shall  gladden  the  souls  of  the  angels,  in  the 

music   of   angels   expressed, 
For   the   sudden   release   of   the  White   Dove   of 

Peace,     that    was    winged    from    Jehovah's 

breast. 


BOOK  IV 

EDWARD  THE  SEVENTH  AND 
OTHER  THRENODIES 


EDWARD  THE  SEVENTH 

AN  ODE 


ENGLAND,  bend  low  'bove  thine  exalted  dead ; 
A  sovereign  messenger  of  Peace  has  passed 
Thy  royal  guarded  gates,  and  through  them  led, 
With  his  unsandaled  feet,  thy  kingly  King. 

Into  the  Vast, 

He  went  forth  with  the  panoply  of  spring 
Blazoning  around  him,  not  to  martial  sound 
Of  bugle  or  of  drum,  but  wrapt  in  hush  profound, 
In  the  magnificence  of  death  laid  down  Scepter 

and  crown 

For  a  new  dwelling  in  a  new  domain, 
In  a  diviner  realm  to  reign. 

What  gifts  hadst  thou,  O  England,  to  compare, 
No  measured  country  his  to  share, 
But  the  illimitable  sweeps  afar, 
Reached,  star  by  star, 

Where  the  Eternals  are: — 
O  England,  bid  thy  nightingales  sing  low, 
Sing  low,  sing  low,  thy  King  asleep, 
And  bid  the  winds  that  o'er  the  hawthorn  blow 

And  cross  the  heather  sweep 
No  more  the  harps  of  spring  to  wake 
But  into  requiems  of  silence  go, 

Mighty  as  endless  woe, 

Mightier    than    those    chorused    forth    that    thy 
whole  Kingdom  shake. 
91 


92        3n  a  Portuguese  <$arUen 


ii 


Nation  made  desolate, 

Thy  Peoples'  lamentations  fill  the  air, 

But  what  of  her,  drowned  in  supreme  despair, 
Thy  Queen? 

How  shalt  thou  even  dare 
To  seek  to  gauge  the  gulf  of  thy  regret 
While  she,  with  bleeding  pangs  unguessed, 
Sits,  sword  to  hilt  plunged  in  her  breast? 
Lend  her  thy  lion  strength  on  which  to  lean, 
Pay  to  the  King  who  ruled  so  well  thy  debt, 
Weep  not,  O  England,  for  thyself,  but  for  thy 
Queen,  thy  Queen. 


Ill 


England  bend  low ;  thy  King  sleeps  well 
With  all  life's  honors  and  perplexments  done, 

He  sleeps,  as  in  a  spell: 

So  let  him  sleep  who  has  outsoared  the  sun ; 
So  let  him  sleep  in  his  transcendent  rest, 
Who  has  met,  breast  to  breast, 
The  everlasting  one; 
And  wearing  his  insignia,  why 
Ah  why  for  him  put  sackcloth  on? 
Plucking  the  flower  of  Immortality 
He  went  forth  with  the  panoply  of  spring 
Blazoning  around  him,  into  the  Vast — God's  Vast. 
and  won 


3tt  a  Portuguese  <£>atDen        93 

A  rank  that  only  death  could  bring, 
Sublimer  than  of  king — 
And  so — sleeps  well, 
England,  lift  up  again  thy  mighty  head 

Be  comforted — 

Thy  King  sleeps  well,  sleeps  well — why  weep? — 
Let  the  King  sleep. — 


LONDON 

AFTER  THE   KING'S  BURIAL 


THE  King  is  dead — he  went  from  king's  command 
The  mandates  of  a  Mightier  to  obey ; 
Out  from  the  Abbey  where  in  state  he  lay, 
Past  mourning  multitudes,  that  London  spanned, 
Past  crowned  heads,  princes,  peers,  and  band  on 

band 

Of  guards  and  soldiers  and  enflowered  display, 
Was  borne  to  his  eternal  rest  away, 
While  a  wild  rain  of  weeping  swept  the  land — • 
He  went  from  cares  of  state,  and  war's  alarms, 
From  problems,  doubts,  and  life's  vexed  harmo 
nies 

Into  the  rapture  of  eternal  calms ; 
And  summer,  summer  wraps  the  bed  he  lies, 
While  in  the  royal  hand  may  shine  the  palms 
They   only  pluck  who  wander  Paradise. 


3n  a  I£>ortiigite0e  Garden        95 


ii 


The  city's  traffic  is  no  longer  stayed 

And  clamorous  noises,  surging  upward,  ring 

Upon  the  air  of  summer  thundering 

Like  muffled  din  of  distant  cannonade : 

But  howe'er  loud  the  brazen  voice  of  trade, 

It  will  not  summon  back  the  flowering  spring 

Or  waken  from  his  dreamless  sleep  the  King 

Within  his  splendid  mausoleum  laid: 

The  King,  Victoria's  son,  who  reigned  so  well, 

Who  sought  with  power  of  Peace,  to  stay  the 

rents 

That  threatened   foreign  policies,   and  quell 
Mutterings  of  jealousies  and  discontents 
And  calm  and  wise,  as  history  will  tell, 
With  matchless  skill  untangled  continents. 


96        3n  a  Portuguese 


in 


Within  the  castle  sits  the  widowed  Queen, 
Wondering  that  Life's  full  tides  should  round  her 

flow, 

Seeing  the  young  and  careless-hearted  go 
Searching  the  ways  for  pleasure,  caught  by  sheen 
Of  rainbow'd  bubbles,  in  each  passing  scene, 
Who  never  yet  have  kissed  the  lips  of  woe, 
While  she,  with  silent  grief  and  head  bent  low 
Sits  dropping  down  her  heavy  tears  unseen. 
Sits,  with  new  knowledge  of  Love's  crucial  creed, 
Not  gained  by  lips  of  prophet,  or  of  priest, 
The  creed,  wherein  is  written,  that  none  may  read 
"What  of  the  coming  day,"  how  fair  the  East 
Sits    crownless,    crownless    save    for    brows    that 

bleed, 
Who  yesterday  sat  with  the  King  at  feast. 


a  Portuguese  harden        9r 


IV 


From  off  the  shining  crest  of  distant  hills 

The  summer  zephyrs  over  London  blow 

With  a  hot  languor,  moving  to  and  fro 

The  thick  dense  vapor  that  the  city  fills ; 

The  great  sun,  through  the  smoke  embankments, 

spills 

Its  yellow  light  upon  the  streets  below 
On  crash  and  beat  and  roar  and  flare  and  show 
And  juggernaut  of  greed,  that  grinding,  kills. 
On  brawl  of  commerce  in  the  open  mart 
On  steaming  atmosphere  that  films  the  land, 
And  hides  St.  Paul's  magnificence,  in  part, 
On    saddened    crowds,    that     silent     thread    the 

Strand, 

And  London  in  a  swoon,  with  thudding  heart 
Seeming  to  reel  and  sway,  as  built  on  sand. 


98        3n  a  lS>ortugue0e  <£>ar&en 


The  Abbey  reached,  London's  cathedral  tomb, 
The  rain  begins  to  fall,  thick  as  the  tears 
Of  all  the  mourners  of  the  vanished  years 
Whose  dead  are  lying  in  its  massive  womb. 
I  wander  past,  and  in  the  gathering  gloom 
Half  envy  those,  who  know,  nor  hopes,  nor  fears 
Nor  burning  stings  of  Grief's  relentless  spears, 
Oblivious  alike  to  blight  or  bloom ! 
Sudden  the  sun  again — and  boom  and  flow 
And  maelstrom  that  the  city  compasseth ; 
And  with  a  rush  of  flooding  life,  I  know 
How  vast  its  tides,  how  wonderful  its  breath, 
And  winged  with  flame  that  leaps  within  me,  go 
Sailing    through    air,    where    nothing    dies — but 
Death. 


Jn  a  Portuguese  ®ar&en        99 


VI 


London  behind,  with  smoke  and  gloom  and  glare 

With  all  its  pageantries  and  changes  done, 

I  watch  the  lakes,  whose  waters  silent  run 

Hushing  to  rest  the  hills  embossed  there : 

The  skies,  an  ecstasy  of  azure  wear, 

And  swirls  of  purple,  from  the  ground  begun 

Swim  from  the  heather,  upward  toward  the  sun 

Into  divine  effulgence  of  the  air — 

Nor  can  escape  from  Death — for  near,  one  lies, 

Above  whose  poet  heart  the  wild  flowers  spring 

Who  recks  not,  of  the  sun,  or  lakes,  or  skies, 

Or  hills,  whereon  the  larks  regretting,  sing, 

Or  that,  the  air  of  London  reeks  with  sighs, 

Or  that,  on  England's  bosom,  sleeps  a  King. 


ioo      Jn  a  Portuguese 


ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 

DEATH,  thou  hast  brought  on  thy  pinions  noise 

lessly  down  from  on  high 
Scope  for  this  mighty-voiced  minstrel,  scope  for 

the  singer  of  raptures. 
Up  past  the  stars  massive  chording;  up  past  the 

swirling  of  planets 

Into  the  infinite  spaces  where  infinite  ecstasies  lie  — 
Into    the    infinite   spaces,   golden   and   sunlit   and 

bright, 
Death,  thou  has  brought  him  triumphant,  scope 

for  the  passion  of  flight, 
Swinburne  the  mighty-voiced  minstrel,  Swinburne, 

the  singer  of  light. 
Out  beyond  limits  of  England  ;  out  beyond  all  the 

world's  limits, 
Into  the  boundless  Forever  fanned  by  the  music- 

blown  air, 
He  has  seen  flaming  archangels,  sun-crowned  has 

joined  in  their  chorus. 
He   has   seen   song   sweeps   outstretching,   golden 

and  sunlit  and  fair. 
Into   the   song  sweeps   outstretching,   golden   and 

sunlit  and  bright, 
Death,  thou  has  brought  him  transfigured,  scope 

for  the  passion  of  flight, 
Swinburne  the  mighty-voiced  minstrel,  Swinburne 

the  singer  of  light. 


3ln  a  Portuguese  (gartien       101 

T.   B.   ALDRIDGE 

SOUNDLY  he  sleeps  on  Death's  imperial  bed, 

This  lyric  Poet,  with  his  soul  afar 

Shining  exaltedly  like  some  great  star 

Caught  from  the  breast  of  morn  to  Heaven  o'er- 

head. 
Climbing    earth's    dizziest    height    with    fearless 

tread, 

Lo,  from  the  peak  he  reached,  nothing  could  mar 
His  prophet  vision,  nor  could  sunrise  bar 
His  entrance,  into  where  its  rapture  led ! 
Oh,  Poet,  who  hast  dreams  empurpled  worn, 
Halos  of  dreams  sublimer  'round  thee  shine. 
Unto  the  Eternal  heart  of  music  borne 
Thou  liest,  who  its  rhythm  could  so  divine, 
Calm    browed    and     unperplext — and    while    we 

mourn 
The  mastery  of  Infinitudes  is  thine. 


102      3n  a  Jportuguese 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 

IN  ether  of  divinest  thought,  he  dwelt 
This  silent  singer,  up,  so  near  the  sky 

That  all  the  morning's  ecstasy 
Into  his  being  grew, 
Until  within  his  veins  he  felt 
The  liquid  sunrise  pouring  through 
In    rushing   streams    of   golden   fire   that   burned 

to  Song: 
His   soul  was  like  a  mighty  harp,  stringed  with 

the  light 
Perfect,   as   rays   that  thread  the  noon   at  Sum 

mer's  golden  height 

That  sweet  and  strong 
Attuned  to  exaltations  sent  forth  strains 
Ineffable  as  the  melodious  winds  that  blow 
The  pines  into  aeolian  regrets, 
Or  that  of  tender  April  rains 
Kissing  in  their  transcendent  flow 
The  opening  lids  of  new-born  violets  ; 

Now  deep  and  low, 

Now  like  the  ocean's  swelling  undertone 
Whose  massive  diapason  rolls,  organed  from  zone 

to  zone 

In  solitude  of  mountain  tops  and  streams 
That  were  familiar  to  his  eager  sight 

As  clamorous  in  might 

As  the  wild  thunders  that  above  them  broke 
The  silences  that  filled  the  air  awoke 


Innumerable  dreams, 
That  shaped  to  noble  metres,  sprang 

From  line  to  line 
Magnificently  on,  and  on, 
Until  the  goal  of  classic  song  was  won ; 
Nor  yet  content,  still  on,  and  on,  he  sang, 
Drinking  insatiate  the  imperial  wine, 
From  knowledge  of  the  ages  pressed, 

And  giving  wings 

To  the  mysterious  immeasurable  things, 
The  chrysalis  of  genius  could  not  hide 
That  into  vivid  life  resplendent  flew 
Holding  the  world  enthralled,  while  past  the  blue 
Into    Creation's    heaven    of    heavens    they    palpi 
tated  through, 

Until  with  overwhelming  tide 

Of  overwhelming  light, 
The  apocalypse  of  song  within  his  breast, 
The    harp-strings    snap'd — the    music   stopped — 

and  the  pale  singer  lay 
In  the  full  splendor  of  Eternal  day. 


104      3Jn  a  Portuguese  harden 

JULIA   WARD   HOWE 

SWING  out,  oh  gates  of  the  sunrise, 
Wider  with  weight  of  the  glory 
Borne  from  the  infinite  dazzle, 
Caught  from  the  Throne  and  its  lilies 
And  from  the  pinions  approaching, 
Winging  toward  light  ye  enclose 
Sing  forth  invisible  choirs 
In  a  magnificent  chorus, 
Led  by  the  shining  arch  angels 
Rapture  on  rapture  enharping, 
While  into  music's  eternal 
Music's  supreme  flower  goes. 

Wider,  swing  wider,  oh  gateway, 

Till  e'en  to  earth's  blinded  vision 

Press  of  the  transcendent  glory 

As  of  her  joy  to  bear  witness 

Down  through  the  suffocate  silence 

Drops  like  a  kiss  from  on  high. 

Listen,  oh  hearts  that  enheld  her, 

And  ye  may  hear  in  the  distance 

Sweeping  in  exquisite  sweetness 

Through  the  new  heaven  that  enwraps  her 

Voice  of  Jehovah's  beloved 

Break,  like  a  star  through  the  sky. 


3(n  a  Pottugue0e  Parpen       105 

Swing  out,  oh  gates  of  the  sunrise, 

Wider  and  wider  and  wider 

Until  the  whole  heavens  shall  shine  forth 

Like  the  apocalypse  blazing 

And  for  a  sublimate  moment 

Rays  whence  it  springs  ye  disclose, 

Neath  which  invisible  choirs 

Sing  in  magnificent  chorus, 

Led  by  the  shining  arch  angels 

Rapture  on  rapture  enharping, 

While  into  music's  eternal 

Music's  supreme  flower  goes. 


106      3n  a  Portuguese  ®arDen 

EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE 

DEATH,  Love's  high  priest,  upon  Love's  mission 

bent, 

Enwrapt  this  soul  in  a  majestic  calm 
And  left  him  smiling  with  the  mystic  charm 
To  the  Immortals  by  the  Immortals  lent. 
Out  through  the  silent  gates,  behold  he  went, 
Unknowing  aught  of  shrinking  or  alarm, 
Led  onward  by  the  Eternal,  palm  to  palm, 
Into   another,  fairer  continent. 
Oh,  mighty  one,  Apostle  of  the  light, 
Dreamer  of  earth  for  Earth  all  too  divine, 
Thou  wert  baptized  in  heavenly  joy  and  light 
Ere  thou  hadst  winged  beyond  the  boundary  line 
And  into  glory  of  the  Infinite 
Hast  taken  thy  place  with  cherubim   ashine. 


3n  a  {Portuguese  Parpen       107 

ALBERT  LAIGHTON,  POET 

HE  lent  his  ear,  this  Singer  whom  we  knew, 
To  murmurous  secrets  of  the  Summer  air, 

And  in  a  verse,  the  while,  the  South  winds  blew. 
Transfixed  them,  unaware. 

He  made  the  Sea's  eternal  voice  his  own, 
And  from  its  everlasting  music  wrought 

A  sublimated  measure,  arteried  through, 
With  golden  flame  of  Thought. 

And  then  he  vanished,  like  a  sunrise  glow: — 
But    the     South    winds    he    heard,    still    blow 
divine, 

And  the  sea's  rapture  at  its  Tidal  flow, 
Lives,  in  some  magic  line. 

And  all  the  secrets  of  the  upper  air 
That  only  to  Immortals  can  belong, 

He    long    since    learned,    whom    Genius    Crowned 

fair, 
With  the  white  flower  of  song. 


108      jn  a  Portuguese 


A.  P. 

HE   touched   the   countless    chords   of  Life,    and 

played 

So  wondrously  upon  its  complex  keys 
That   ere   we   knew,    sprang    forth    strange   har 

monies 

And  bar  by  bar  the  perfect  song  was  made; 
Great  thoughts  inspired  him,  and  he  essayed 
From  their  fair  fields  the  fairest  flowers  to  seize, 
And  taught  by  Beauty,  listening  its  decrees, 
His  own  divinest  impulses  obeyed. 
Nor  do  we  question  wherefore  should  he  go, 
For  they  who  climb  the   summits,  breathing  air 
They  unseen    breathe,    who    all  Earth's  secrets 

know, 
Are  shining  marks  for  Death  —  Death  found  him 

there, 

And  to  the  masters  he  had  loved  below 
Led  him  still  higher,  their  Heaven  of  thought  to 

share. 


Jin  a  Portuguese  harden       109 

THE  SINGER  G.  C.  L. 

HE    went,    like  a    lark    springing,    morning    to 

breast 

In  a  glory  enwrapt,  with  his  face  to  the  sun ; 
With  a  song  on  his  lips  he  had  only  begun ; 
By  the  music  within  him  divinely  opprest, 
From  the  rapture  of  singing  to  rapture  of  rest. 

He  gave  to  the  world,  borne  aloft  to  song's  crest 
In  measures  from  stars  in  the  Pleiades  caught 
The     sublimities     lyricked     from     vast     of     his 

thought ; — 
Then   went,    like    a   lark    springing,    morning    to 

breast 
From  the  rapture  of  singing  to  rapture  of  rest. 


no      Sn  a  Portuguese 


TOSCA  LYON 

I 

A  MEMORIAL 

SHE  was  so  radiant  when  I  saw  her  last 

With  the  strange  rapture  on  her  face  they  wear 

Whose  aureoles  are  shaping  in  the  air, 

I  turned  me  to  the  east  when  she  had  passed, 

To  see  what  shadow  on  the  sun  was  cast, 

And  then  I  knew  her  soul  in  light  had  share 

And   that   toward   that   dazzling  otherwhere 

Her  feet  in  glory  shod,  were  travelling  fast. 

And  so  I  lost  my  heart  to  her  that  day 

As  the  dull  things  of  earth  lose  hearts  to  Spring, 

And  through  the  immeasurable  bloom  of  May 

I  search  the  sunny  spots  where  wild  flowers  cling 

For  some  divinest  violet  hidden  away 

She  smiled   upon   in   last  year's  blossoming. 

II 

ON  HER  PICTURE  TAKEN  IN  EGYPT 

WHAT   dreamed   this   flower   of  flowers     in     that 

strange  land 
Where  Pharaohs  reigned  and  where  they  lay  at 

rest 

In  splendor  of  barbaric  jewels  drest? 
What  were  her  fancies  as  she  stretched  her  hand 
To   pluck   the   leaves   by   tropic   breezes   fanned? 


Kn  a  Portuguese  harden       in 

She  looks  as  if  she  held  within  her  breast 
Imperial  secrets  by  the   Sphinx  confessed, 
And  all  the  ages'  truths  her  eyes  had  scanned; 
Nay,  more,  she  looks  as  if  her  soul  had  sight 
Of  an  Immense  to  which  she  might  be  won. 
Only,  Love  near,  awhile  she  stayed  her  flight 
That  still  her  happy  heart  was  bent  upon. 
So,    knoweth    now    whence    comes    the    Pleiades' 

light; 
Yea,  and  can  count  the  fires  of  Orion. 


112      3n  a  Portuguese  (gartien 

EMERSON 

'MONO  men  he  was  a  master;  with  his  eyes 
Forever  questioning  Nature,  he  grew  wise, 

The  secrets  of  the  Spring  unraveling; 
And  with  its  laughing  rivers,  laughed, 
And   from   the   Springs   of  all   the   ages,  quaffed 
The  attar  of  their  joy,  and  learned  innumer 
able  notes  to  sing 
From  birds  on  wing, 
Till  into  music  he  could  set 
The  perfume  of  a  violet 
And  drew,  from  exhalations  of  its  dew 
Into   his    rippling   cadences,   the   rapture    of   its 
blue. 

'Mong  men  he  was  a  master ;  and  drinking  deep 
From    bosom    of    the    heavens    that    o'er    him 

swept, 

Was  nurtured  on  the  spheres,  and  kept 
His   soul  attuned  to  their  imperial   sweep ; 
Yea,  traveled  with  them,  till  his  pace 

They  could  no  longer  keep, 
Then  vanished  into  space, 

Up  through  the  ether  fine 
They    only   breathe  who   are   divine ! — 
But  still  the  world  sings,  and  it  still  will  sing 
The  song  wherein  the  master  set 
The  rapture  of  the  violet ; 
He  cannot  die,  whose  spirit  caught 


3n  a  Portuguese  (gattten       113 

The  laughter  of  the  streams ; 
And  color  of  his  unhorizoned  dreams 
Into  cerulean  music  wrought — 
In  kingly  state 
He  stands  out,  with  the  great, 

And  this  the  message  that  the  century  gives, 

The  master  lives ! 


3n  a  ^Portuguese 


THRENODY 


THE  sun  sprang  forth  to  meet  the  golden  day, 
The  day  we  knew  her  first,  too  fair  to  die, 
And  the  glad  April  on  its  glittering  way, 
Dropped  violets  from  the  sky. 

II 

With  music  of  the  ages  all  aflame, 
Raptured  with  jonquil  splendors  of  the  east, 
From  near  and  far  its  voice  transcendent  came, 
Like  the  sky's  soul  released. 

Ill 

And  listening  to  the  melody  supreme 
Too  near  the  angels  to  have  known  regrets, 
A  radiant  child  as  in  a  radiant  dream, 
Bloomed  with  the  violets. 

IV 

0  child  transfigured,  who  wert  April's  own, 
With  nature  rhythmic  to  its  pulses'   swing, 
Up  from  the  arms  that  held  thee,  thou  hast  flown 
Into   the  arms   of  Spring. 


3n  a  Portuguese  <$atDen       115 

CIRCUMSTANCE 

HE  was  like  lark  climbing  to  some  new  height, 
Plunging  the  radiant  shining  ether  through, 
That  with  exultant  pinions  sweeps  the  blue 
And  sings  to  it  ecstatic  with  its  light: — 
How   could   this   high-souled   dreamer   turn   from 

flight 

And  to  the  illimitable,  forsake  the  clew 
And  the  low  levels  of  the  earth  pursue 
And  be  content  with  them,  as  swallows  might? 
How  could  he  for  a  "silver  piece"  betray 
His  own  high  genius? — nay,  what  time  he  bore 
Heaven  on  his  breast,  he  had  heard  mighty  play 
Of  wings  therein  up-sweeping  score  on  score, 
And  so,  with  face  turned  East  toward  the  day 
Listening  th'  immortals,  learned  the  way  to  soar. 


116      an  a  Ipottugue0e  (gattien 

MY  SILENT  SINGER 

HE  was  the  fairest  thing 
The  April  skies,  all  palpitate  with  blue, 

As  if  with  violets  abrim, 
Looked  down  upon ; 
And  birds  were  won, 

Sweeping  the  sunrise  fires  to  sing  to  him 
Who,  gladdest   of  the  sunrise  visions  knew, 

And  whose  young  voice  had  ring 
Like  laughter  of  the  thousand  streams, 
That,  wakened  from  their  wintry  dreams, 
Ran,  rippling  to  the  sea ; 
Ah  me,  ah  me! 

My  little,  star-eyed  child 
That  with  the  violets  came,  and  smiled, 
And,  with  ineffable  content, 
Smiled  on — and  with  the  violets  went. 

The  spring  winds,  now,  that  blow 
And  to  the  hills  and  valleys  whisper  low, 

Listen,  in  vain,  to  hear 
The  music  of  his  footsteps  drawing  near; 
The  rippling  laughter  of  the  streams  goes  on ; 
But  gladdest  note  from  April's  voice  is  gone ; 
And  waves  of  sunshine  golden  drifting  go, 
And,  soundless,  search  the  lily  blooming  ground, 
And,  soundless,  grow  to  rainbows  on  the  mound 
Where  lilies  with  the  whitest  petals  grow, 
And  birds  with  joy  of  spring  aflame 
That  come,  each  year,  and  sing  the  same ; 


3fn  a  Portuguese  (garden       117 

Howso  they  sing,  no  more  enthrall, 
For  sweeter  and  diviner  than  them  all 
I  seem  to  hear,  down  through  the  ether  fall 
A  rapture  'scaping  heaven,  like  his  transcendent 
call. 

And  though  its  sun's  rays  pierce  and  sting, 
Unto  the  April's  heart  I  cling 

As  to  some  living  thing: 
For  ofttimes  from  its  shadowed  eyes, 
As,  grieving  for  the  grief  I  cannot  hide, 
Its  warm  tears  rain  upon  the  place  where  lies 

Its  other  self,  who  died; 

Its  other  self,  denied 

To   the  whole   world — and   me — 
Oh,  star-eyed  child,  God  gave  to  thee, 
Who  hadst  outgrown  thine  earthly  place, 
Death — whose  transfiguring  grace 

Makes  royal  all  the  race. 

*  *  *  *  #  # 

Thou  sleepest  well,  my  king; 
Thou    sleepest   well,   my    Spring-crowned    spring. 


118      3n  a  Pottugue0e 


MY  MINSTREL 


A  MINSTREL  violin-voiced  once  dwelt  with  me 
Whose  Soul,  abrim  with  ecstasy  of  June, 
Was  with  all  earth  and  all  the  heavens  in  tune ; 
And  sang  with  birds  that  sang  on  every  tree, 
And  blew  from  dandelion's  heart  with  glee, 
Where  a  gold  sun  had  set,  its  fleecy  moon, 
And  chased  the  butterflies  lit  up  with  noon, 
And  frolicked  with  the  west  winds,  glad  and  free : 
He  sprang  out  on  the  hills  with  laughter  clear 
And  sprang  still  on,  the  echoing  laugh  to  meet 
And   caught   the    foam   of   glad    brooks     tossing 

near, 

And  trod  the  universe  with  flying  feet 
The  music  of  its  millions  notes  to  hear, 
And  made,  himself,   the  symphony   complete. 


3n  a  Portuguese  ®atDen       119 


ii 


Untired,  the  minstrel  slept  Memorial  day; 
I  could  not  keep  him,  at  the  bugle's  sound, 
From  leaping  out  to  Death,  that,  sunrise 

crowned, 

Bore  him,  white  limbed  and  beautiful,  away. 
Hushed  by  the  muffled  beat  of  drums,  he  lay, 
Like  one  who  in  a  happy  dream  had  found 
The  Universe  he  yearned  in  Eden's  ground, 
And  was  content  his  flying  feet  to  stay; — 
— Deathless    is    Death,    for    never     through     the 

years 

Have  I  forgotten  the  look  his  young  eyes  bore, 
As  prescient,  that  they  were  not  meant  for  tears ; 
Or  the  strange  rapture  of  the  smile  he  wore 
In  that  white  dream,  wherein  he  trod  the  spheres, 
But — am  importunate  of  Heaven,  no  more. 


120      jn  a  Portuguese 


in 


Years  melt  to-day,  to  that  one,  when  aflame 
With  the  hushed  rapture  of  maternity 
Higher  than  calm,  I  was  content  to  lie 
Cradling  the  radiant  messenger  that  came 
To   crown  spring,  doubly  spring,  whose  earthly 

name 

I  cannot  whisper  now  without  a  sigh. 
Who  was  so  strangely  fair,  naught  but  the  sky 
Held  paths  divine  enough  his  feet  to  claim; 
I  know  not,  if  the  early  March  that  year 
Was  wrapt  in  warmth  or  winding  sheet  of  snow ; 
I  only  know  through  the  thin  atmosphere 
I  saw  white  lilies  falling  all  ablow 
Yearning  toward  his  heart,  to  mine  so  near, 
His  heart  that  beat  such  little  time  below. 


a 


IV 


He  saw  the  grasses  growing  on  the  hills 
Beckon  his  coming  but  a  few  short  springs ; 
And    through    the    sunshine     watched    upsoaring 

wings 

As  if  not  strange  their  glitter,  and  heard  rills 
And  answered  them,  as  one  who  but  fulfills 
Impulse  of  nature  and  so  heaven  voiced  sings ; 
And  pondering,  pondering  mysterious  things 
Vanished,  one  springtime,  with  the  daffodils : 
It  was,  oh,  long  ago  he  came — and  went, 
Yet  always  when  earth  breaks  to  flowers,  I  see 
Up  in  the  blue  above  me,  sunrise  rent, 
Not  spring  alone,  but  spring's  epiphany 
Vision  encrowned  with  lilies,  as  if  sent 
To  show,  Love  waits,  beyond  Gethsemane. 


122      3n  a  Portuguese 


The  Spring  comes  slowly  on,  as  if  to  stay 

The    flowers    from    opening   at    the   south   wind's 

kiss, 

Lest  the  young  daffodils  a-bloom  should  miss 
The  child  who  used  to  watch  them  day  by  day, 
And  wore  them,  journeying  outward  April's  way 
Until  he  vanished  through  the  blue  abyss 
Into  a  world  of  goldener  flowers  than  this ; 
And     heeds     not,     nor     can     question     Spring's 

delay : — 

The  rain  falls,  sobbing  cadenced,  to  the  ground, 
Dripping  with  woe,  as  if  of  all  the  years 
Since  first  it  wet  the  grasses  on  his  mound ; 
Ah,  fitting  heaven  itself  should  drop  its  tears 
For    thee,    beloved,    who    wenteth    forth,    flower- 
crowned, 

And   tookst   thine   April   with   thee,   through   the 
spheres. 


3n  a  Portuguese  harden       126 


VI 


Taught  by  the  bluebirds,  to  each  morning's  sun 
He  sang,  the  music  in  his  soul  to  free, 
And  filled  the  days  with  matchless  melody, 
Till  the  whole  scale  of  rapture  he  had  run ; 
Then,   rapture   hushed  him,   and  his    songs   were 

done; 

But  always  when  the  first  wild  flower  I  see 
Across   the   Spring  his   voice   comes  back   to   me 
As  if  from  silence  he  might  yet  be  won : 
Weep  on,  O  Spring !     Thy  tears  are  all  too  fleet : 
Something  divine  is  missing  from  thy  breast 
And  thou  wilt  hear  no  more  the  sound  of  feet 
That  have  through  fields  of  shining  lilies  pressed, 
Or   feel  warm   on  thine    own,  my     child's    heart 

beat — 
Who  has  so  long — so  long  been  rocked  to  rest. 


124       3n  a  Portuguese  <$atUen 


VII 


Lured  by  the  wonderment  of  spring,  mine  eyes 

Are  lifted  to   the  shining  hills,  whereon 

I  looked  rejoicing  when  thou  cam'st  new  won 

0  child,  from  arms  of  Heaven.     The  azure  skies 
Are  lit  to-day  with  the  same  flooding  dyes 
Flung  eastward  by  that  other  sun,  that  shone, 
As  my  illimitable  bliss  to  own 

Half  on  the  earth  and  half  on  Paradise ; 
Fluttering  of  countless  wings  I  hear  again 
As  in  the  past ;  and  hyacinths  call  to  me, 
Clamoring  the  same,  in  their  new  bloom  to  reign  ; 

1  have  unlocked  my  soul,  and  set  grief  free 
And  bade  the  spring  rush  in ;  but  all  in  vain — 
It  is  the  old  spring,  not  the  new,  I  see. 


fln  a  pottugue0e  <g>artien       125 

VIII 

When  the  annunciation  lilies  wake 

And     purple    hyacinths    break     their     perfumed 

sighs, 
Thy   birthday     comes,    O    child,     whose     radiant 

eyes 
Illumine     heaven.     Once     more     the     near     hills 

shake 

The  sunshine  to  thy  grave,  and  bluebirds  wake 
Innumerable  echoes  as  they  rise 
And  sing,  as  if  to  sing  thee  from  the  skies, 
And  will  not  hush,  howe'er  my  heart  may  ache, 
Each  year  in  earliest  days  of  spring  I  dream 
Of  that  sweet  time  when  first  I  welcomed  thee, 
And  of  that  other  time  thou  caughtest  gleam 
That  lured  thee  into  immortality. 
0  child,  thou  wert  spring's  miracle,  supreme, 
What  miracle  but  death's  is  left  to  me? 


126      3n  a  Ig>ortii0ue0e  harden 


IX 


Gay    plumaged   birds    that    come     to     greet     the 

Spring 

While  Spring  is  yet  new  born,  always  I  sigh, 
As  past  the  glittering,  opal  hills  ye  fly, 
For  one  who  nevermore  will  hear  you  sing; 
Nor  winds,  whichever  way  they  blow,  can  bring 
The  music  of  his  laughter  from  the  sky, 
Or  echoes  of  his  footsteps  drawing  nigh 
That  only  now,  through  fields   elysian  ring — 
Ah,  as  with  rushing  sound  ye  cleave  the  air, 
Scatt'ring  the  gossamer  radiance  as  ye  go, 
What  is  it  unto  me  that  ye  shouldst  bear 
The  sunshine  on  your  wings,  since  never  glow 
Will  light  to  flooding  gold  his  bright  young  hair, 
Or    aught    but    wild    flowers    where    he   slumbers, 

show  ? 


a  Portuguese  <$arDen       iar 


He  held  the  lilies  in  his  childish  hand, 

Grown  white  in  silent  splendor  of  the  Spring, 

And  smiled  on  summer  roses  blossoming; 

As  if  his  happy  heart  could  understand 

Whence   came  the   sunshine,   and  from  out  what 

land 

Came  music  of  the  birds — who  stayed  to  sing, 
He  loved   them  so — and   slept   at  last,  to   swing 
Of  rhythmic  planets  he  had  nightly  scanned, 
He  slept — but  woke  to  fairer  flowers  and  light, 
And  tuned  to  music  all  divine ;  became 
An  angel,  sweeping  in  transcendent  flight 
The   chords   of   all   the   worlds ;  yea,   that   whose 

name 

Is  heaven ;  woke  into  beauty  infinite, 
A  child  immortal,  but  mine  own,  the  same. 


128      3n  a  Portuguese  <$ar&en 


XI 


From  out  the  silences  thou  earnest  sweet, 

Enclad  in  music,  Radiant  as  a  star, 
Borne  on  the  heart  of  springs  that  near  and  far 

Scattered  white  hyacinths  with  every  beat, 
From  off  the  scintillant  hilltops  warm  and  fleet, 

The    sunshine    trickled    through    the    heavens 

afar. 
Nor  faintest  film  hung  in  the  air  to  mar 

The     glittering     pathway     for     thy     pinions 

beat : — 
Ah,  crowding  years  can  never  dim  the  light, 

Transfusing  all  the  earth  and  sky  and  sea 
Of  that  far  spring,  when  lifted  to  the  height 

Of  gaugeless  joy,  oh  child,  I  cradled  thee, 
Thine  eyes   are  holding  Seraphim  in  sight 

Still  seraph  shining,  looking  forth,  past  me. 


Jn  a  Portuguese  <£arDen       129 

XII 

Oh  seraph  child,  thou  wert  not  meant  to  stay 

But  little  while,  the  coming  spring  to  meet, 
And  unforgotten  music  of  thy  feet 

Breaks    into    quivering   threnodies    to-day. 
The  scintillating  hilltops  cannot  pierce  their  way 

To  the  vast  scintillence  of  thy  retreat; 
And  though  the  wild  white  hyacinths  I  greet, 

The  coming  spring  without  thee  seems  astray ; 
I  have  implored  but  death  will  make  no  sign, 

Frigid  it  answered  not  to  my  desire; 
Yet  sometimes  list'ning  I  could  half  divine 

I  hear  thy  voice  upsoaring  from  a  choir; 
Its  holy  rapture,  caught  in  dawn's  gold  line, 

Made  audible  in  its  transcendent  fire. 


BOOK  V 
SONGS  OF  THE   CITIES 


IN  AN  OLD  CHATEAU— BRITTANY 
I 

FROM   AN   EASTERN   WINDOW 

A  FILMY  sky  with  stars  that  pale  and  clear, 

Like  flowering  lilies  amber  hearted,  shine, 

Then  as  elysian  gathered,  line  on  line 

From  their  elysian  garden  disappear; 

And  rising  thick,  and  stealing  far  and  near 

Where    nights'    spent    fires    and    dawns'    new   lit 

combine 
A     turquoise     smoke,     their     smoldering    embers 

sign 

Empurpling  the  translucent   atmosphere ; 
East  born,  a  tender  flush  that  spreads  the  blue, 
And  deepening,  deepening  still  to  rapture  grows, 
And  Ocean  shimmering  lifted  into  view 
Stretched  out  majestic  limbed  in  its  repose; 
And  on  a  phantomed  disk  half  pricking  through 
The   scarlet  heart  of  Morning's   full-blown  rose. 


133 


134      3n  a  Portuguese 


ii 

FROM  A  WESTERN  WINDOW 

On  the  horizon's  rim,  a  dauntless  sun 

Wounded  and  bleeding,  and  yet  holding  place, 

Tossing  his  streaming  hair  with  matchless  grace, 

And  all  unbaffled,  battling  one  by  one 

The   clouds    that   plunge    and   overwhelming   run 

Across  the  sky,  whereon  still  lingers  trace 

Of  his  own  dazzling  course,  in  dazzling  race 

For  the  emblazoned  parapet,  "just  won." 

Wavering  and  swooning  and  half  lost  to  view, 

Struggling  as  if  his  dying  strength  to  test, 

The   near   hills   watch  him,   from   their   deeps   of 

blue, 

Drown,  in  a  gulf  of  flame  that  floods  the  West, 
And  lo,  while  watching,  as  if  wounded,  too, 
Have    grown    areek    with    Carmine,    breast    by 

breast. 


31n  a  Portuguese  Parpen       135 

IN  BRITTANY— THE  LAND  OF  MISTS 

SUNRISE 

TRAGIC  enshrouded  sun,  unmask,  and  be 
Thine  own  deliverer ;  for  the  strange  pall 
That  dense-meshed  overhangs  thee  shuts  out  all 
The  new  born  triumph  of  the  dawn  from  me. 
While  thou  art  struggling  in  captivity, 
The  whole  world,  as  if  held  in  magic  thrall, 
Seems  listening  for  some  transcendent  call 
That  shall  be  bugled  upward  from  the  sea: — 
Eager  I  watch  the  veil  that  o'er  thee  lies, 
Till  by  the  salt-breathed  tide  mysterious  strewn, 
Web  after  web  of  the  torn  vapor  flies, 
Bannering  the  east  with  radiance  all  thine  own, 
While  thou,  thou  shin'st  on  bosom  of  the  skies 
Like  an  elysian  daffodil,  full  blown. 


136      3n  a  Portuguese  <$arDen 

NOON 

The  gorse  is  hidden  blossoming  by  the  ways, 
And  fogs  hang  heavy  on  the  breathless  air, 
And  nothing  of  the  sun  is  seen  save  glare 
Of  smoky  saffron,  smoking  through  the  haze, 
Along  Concarneau's  water  edge  its  rays 
Unsheathed  a  moment,  lay  the  white  sails  bare, 
Then   swift   withdrawn,  leave   them   enphantomed 

there, 

And  the  whole  sea  is  blotted,  while  we   gaze : — 
But    wait — The    wind    upsprings,    and    fleet    and 

fine 

A  rosy  tremor  through  the  filming  flies, 
And  harbor,  ships,  and  sea  are  all  ashine; 
And  in  the  middle  of  the  noonday  skies, 
Fired  with  its  own  resplendence,  as  with  wine, 
The  scarlet  sun  flares,  stripped  of  its  disguise. 


a  poctugue0e 


SUNSET 

Oh,  peerless  Sun,  superbly  lingering  yet, 
Slip  not  too  soon  into  the  arms  of  night  ; 
Stay,  and  allegiance  of  the  day  requite 
With  new  magnificence  ere  thou  shalt  set  ; 
The  dew  falls  fast  —  the  eyes  of  flowers  are  wet, 
They   weep    for  thee  who   art   half  hidden   from 

sight  ; 

Once  more  adown  the  west  send  thy  full  light 
And  lift  the  twilight  from  its  pale  regret:  — 
Reckless,  into  a  sea  of  liquid  rose 
Thou  plungest  with  thy  golden  bosom  bare 
And  swimmest  onward  till  the  waters  close, 
And  thou  art  drowned  therein,  who  wert  so  fair  ; 
While  still  across  the  horizon  streaming  flows 
The  tangled  splendor  of  thy  glittering  hair. 


138      3n  a  Portuguese  ©arDen 

EGYPT 

I 
EGYPT 

Oh  land  majestic  and  sublime, 

The  living  monument  defying  time 
Above  dead  cities  set ; 

Where  like  a  voiceless  image  of  regret, 
As    from   humanity   debarred — 

The    Sphinx    with    stony    eyes    keeps    ceaseless 

guard, 
Thou  standest  like  a  Queen  dethroned, 

Still   mighty   though   disowned — 
Looking  with  undimmed  eyes, 

Without  lamenting   and  without    surprise 
Across  the  faded  centuries, 

And  seest  the  waters  of  the  enchanting  Nile 
Still  in  the  sunlight  smile, 

And  hearest  on  eastern  sands  their  music  beat 
Serene  as  when  they  flowed  at  Pharoah's  kingly 
feet. 

The  pyramids  that  stand 

Like  massive  tents  for  the  immortals  planned 
Thine  outposts  line, 

And  so  mysterious  in  their  grandeur  seem, 
It  is  not  strange  that  men  to-day  should  dream 

Immortal  armies  in  a  hush  divine 
Are  waiting  there  some  sign 

Thy  secrets  to  reveal: 


Oh,  Egypt,  like  a  sovereign  unseal 

Thy  people's  treasure,  open  wide  and  free 
Thy  soul's  gigantic  tomb  that  we  may  see 
The  vast  magnificence  therein,  o'er  which  have 

rolled, 
Burying  resistless  dynasties,  aeons  untold. 

What  splendors  still  are  thine — what  gems  of 

art 
Lie  crushed  upon  thy  pulseless  heart? 

Haughty  and  mute  thou  stand'st — yet  while  we 

own 

Prophetic  message  of  thy  marble  lilies  blown, 
We  still  shall  call  thee  Queen,  mighty  though 
overthrown. 

Within  thy  breast 

Nations  once  powerful  in  silence  rest, 
And  sepulchers  with  many  a  royal  guest, 

Where  through  the  darkness  shine, 
As  if  of  love's  supremacy  the  sign, 

Pictures  of  faces  young  and  radiant-eyed, 
Who  lived  and  loved  and  died 

Six  thousand  years  ago — 
And  there  the  marble  lotus-lilies  blow, 

Sculpture  by  some  dead  hand  as  if  to  show 
While  yet  thy  years  were  few,  ere  Christ's  decree, 

Thy  people  hoped  and  longed  for  immortality. 


3n  a  Portuguese  harden 


ii 


TO  THE  EGYPTIAN  SPHINX 

Thou,  who  hast  through  Ogygian  aeons  kept 
Thy    calm   lips    sealed,    who    hast     escaped,     un- 

drowned 
The    insatiate    Sea    of   Time,    what    sight,    what 

sound 
Can   rouse,  who   ere   the   world  was   mayst  have 

kept 

Thine  ageless  vigil,  by  despairs  o'erswept, 
And  since  then,  chance  in  whirl  of  chaos,  found, 
Upon  the  mighty  heart  of  Egypt  bound ; 
Wherefore,    O     Sphinx,    hast    thou    unwakening 

slept  ? 

Colossal  mystery,  when  the  world  shall  sway 
And  into  nothingness  be  crumbling  sent, 
I  wonder  wilt  thou  still  majestic  stay 
With  thy  stone  eyes  upon  the  future  bent, 
And  scathless,  though  all  else  shall  pass  away, 
Be  left  behind,  the  dead  world's  monument ! 
Great  baffling  mystery  of  the  centuries, 
Lion  that  crouchest  changeless  on  thy  throne 
As  if  to  spring  and  rend  from  out  the  stone 
Thy  mongrel  impotence,  canst  thou  not  rise 
And  to  the  woman's  lips  bring  woman's  cries? 
Must    thou,   with   her    superb   resistance,    own 
Thy  snarling  rage  canst  never  be  outgrown ; 
Must    thou    be    beast — beast    till    Time    pitying 

dies? 


O  tragic  image  of  sublime  despair, 
Wert  thou  all  woman,  by  thine  anguish  led, 
Thou  mightst  break  trance  and  crush  the  mon 
ster  there 

And  regal  conquering  reign  alone  instead ; 
Nay,  thou  might'st  to  thy  breast  a  soul  ensnare, 
— But    wouldst   be    Sphinx,    0    Sphinx,    the    lion 
dead? 


a  Pottugue0e 


in 

MIDNIGHT  IN  EGYPT 

The  midnight  sleeps  and  into  dreaming  sinks, 
And  the  white  moon,  a  lily  newly  blown, 
Leans,  with  a  chaliced  rapture  all  its  own 
And  radiant  floods  the  immemorial  sphinx 
The  level  plain,  athirst  with  mystery,  drinks 
The  liquid  ecstasy,  and  silver  thrown 
The  light,  to  a  colossal  chain  has  grown 
As  pyramid  with  pyramid  it  links  ; 
Not  tombs  these  seem,  but  places  wherein  dwell 
Pharaohs  that  sleep,  nor  would  it  scarce  surprise 
If  they  should  rouse  them  from  their  frigid  spell 
And  swarthy  browed,  magnificent  arise 
And  come  forth  in  barbaric  gems,  to  tell 
Secrets  of  Egypt's  crumbled  dynasties. 


3n  a  Portugue0e  (garDett       143 

LONDON  AND  GRASSMERE   IN   SUMMER 
I 

LONDON 

SNATCHES   of  sunshine   and   transcendent   blue 

'Twixt  evanescent  showers,  and  sudden  sight 

Of  the  dim  Abbey  in  a  flood  of  light 

Lifted  for  one  brief  moment  into  view. 

The  noises  of  the  city  booming  through 

The  smoke-enweighted  air,  in  deafening  might, 

The   parks    and   squares    and,   winding,   left    and 

right, 

The  river,  old  and  yet  forever  new. 
A  steadfast  throbbing  like  an  engine's  beat 
Borne  from  the  busy   Strand,  where  on   and  on 
Come  surging  multitudes  with  hurrying  feet, 
And  in  their  very  midst,  pillowed  upon 
Heaven's  overhanging  bosom,  as  is  meet, 
The   splendid   obelisk  of  Wellington. 


144      jn  a  Pottugue0e 


Twilight    that    lingering    stays    and    stays,    and 

Night 

Adown   the   murky   ether   sailing  slow, 
And  'neath  its  shadow,  dashing  to  and  fro, 
Wheeling  through  crowded  mazes,  light  on  light 
Flashed  here   and  there  and  then  borne  out  of 

sight, 

The  thud  of  horses'  feet  and  tidal  flow 
Of  human  life,  and  fire  and  flame  and  glow 
Of  London's  midnight  fever  at  its  height. 
Music  and  drama  and  the  silken  sheen 
Of  royal  women,  and  with  haggard  eyes 
Gaunt  shadows  crouching  low,  with  hunted  mien, 
And,  mingled  with  the  continuous  roar,  the  cries 
Of  murdered  souls  that  bleed  to  death  unseen,  —  - 
And  over  all  the  calm  stars  shining  high. 


Jn  a  Portuguese  harden       145 
ii 

GRASSMERE 

A  single  star  faint  burning,  like  a  spark 

From  some  spent  fire  blown  east,  that  flickering 

lies, 

Then  sinks,  and  on  the  swarthy  azure  dies ; 
And    out    from   where    the    night    lies,   dead    and 

stark, 

A  golden  sword-blade,  cutting  through  the  dark, 
And  Dawn's   warm  blood  that  pouring  outward 

flies, 

Running  in  scarlet  streams  across  the  skies, 
And  rapturing  upward  an  awakened  lark; 
The  sun,  borne  to  the  sky's  and  lake's  embrace, 
The  blackened  hills   that   into   purple   leap, 
Wild  flowers  that  with  the  heather  interlace 
And  'neath  the  heavy  dews  enflooding,  weep 
While  'neath  their  weeping  hearts,  his  fitting  place, 
Who  sang  them  deathless,  lying  sound  asleep. 


a  Portugue0e 


A  DREAM  OF  ANCIENT  GREECE 

IT  is  of  the  old  peerless  Greece  I  dream, 

And  'neath  its  skies  I  see  the  setting  sun 

Shine  on  the  splendors  of  the  Parthenon 

And  hear,  swept  onward  by  some  noble  theme, 

Songs    of    inspired   Athenians    mount    supreme 

To  golden  rhapsodies,  and  one  by  one 

In   haunting  measures   through   the   charmed   air 

run 

Till  the  low  sun  with  music  seems  astream  ; 
Then  twilight  sinks,  and  moonlight's  lances   fall, 
Crowning  the  city  with  their  silver  light, 
And  I  can  hear  the  nightingales  that  call 
With  their  melodious  rapture  flooding  night, 
And  see  in  distance,  more  divine  than  all, 
The  JEgeans'  blazing  sapphire  swoon  to  white. 

I  tread  the  labyrinthed  halls  where  statues  stand, 

Seeming  to  breathe  with  life's  intense  desire, 

Whose  marbles  burn  with  the  immortal  fire 

Carven  therein,  by  an  immortal  hand  : 

I  breathe,  intoxicate,  the  air  that  fanned 

The  brow  of  Pericles,  and  list  the  lyre 

The  Lesbian  singer  touched,  and  draw  me  nigher, 

Unheeding  ages,  at  her  song's  command  : 

Hark  !  ere  it  faints,  I  hear  the  battle  fray, 

See   shining  shields   and  gilded  trappings   'blaze, 

And  warriors  holding  enemies  at  bay, 

And  glittering  multitudes  that  crowd  the  ways  ; 


3n  a  Portuguese  aarDen       147 

And  thrilled  by  shouts  of  victory,  I  stay 
To   see  the   brows   of   conquerors   crowned  with 
bays. 

Back,    farther   back,    I     search    those     centuries 

through 

When  Christ  was  not:  I  lift  mine  eyes  and  see 
Homer,   the   thunder-souled,   whose  Odyssey 
Upon  Time's  sea  was  hurled,  and  ere  he  knew 
Eternity  had  snatched:  Homer  who  grew 
Blind  with  his  own  soul's  light,  and  eagle  free 
Heard  the  sun   swing  in  metric  majesty, 
And  set,  magnificent,  his  verse  thereto. 
O    wondrous    Greece,    these    deathless,    are    thy 

pride ; 

No  wonder,  borne  to  such  imperial  height, 
Thou  hadst,  ere  thy  dishevelment,  defied. 
The  world  to  mate  thee;  and  canst  still  scorn 

blight 
Who  hast  reared  gods ;  who  wear'st,  nor  seons  can 

hide, 
Art's  matchless  flower  as  thy  consummate  right. 


a  Portuguese  <5arDen 


PARIS 

PARIS  IN  SUMMER 

PARIS  lies  smiling  in  the  summer  light, 

Keying  to  Pleasure's  note  its  countless  strings, 

Like  some  great  butterfly  with  gaudy  wings 

Striving  with  joys  its  little  day  to  heap: 

It  has   forgotten  the  Bastile,  and  headless  sleep 

Of   murdered   men,    and     the     young     frightened 

things 
That  kissed  with  their  white  lips  their  wedding 

rings 

And  then  were  butchered  as  are  butchered  sheep. 
Oh,  city  piled  with  splendors  infinite  ; 
With  thy  gay  people  and  thy  festive  whir, 
Thou  canst  not  lure  me  with  thy  bubbles  bright, 
A  curdling  horror  seems  my  soul  to  stir, 
As  if  thy  bloody  claws  could  clutch  me  tight  ! 
Oh,  tiger  heart  :  —  oh,  whited  sepulcher  ! 


3n  a  Portugue0e  harden       149 

ROME 
i 

THE  CATACOMBS 

THE  hills  are  brooding  o'er  the  olive  plain 

Of  the  Campagna,  where  above  the  dead 

The  living,  breathing  Rome  lifts  up  her  head 

In  haughty  silence,  heeding  not  the  pain 

Nor  dreams  nor  passions  of  her  martyr's  slain, 

And    though    half    crushed,    half    conquered,    by 

the  tread 

Of  trampling  years  magnificently  fled, 
Rich  in  her  past,  still  regal,  holds  her  reign ! 
Not    strange   her   pride,    whose    classic    feet    are 

pressed 

Upon   the   dust-crowned   Catacombs   where   sleep 
Emperors  and  popes,  and  where  in  holy  rest 
Lies  Music's  Virgin  Saint:  Not  strange  to  keep 
Knowledge  of  sovereignty  within  her  breast, 
Who  has  heard  St.   Cecilia's  strains  upsweep. 


150      an  a  Portuguese  <gart»en 

ii 

SUNSET  OX  THE   APPIAN  WAY 

Writ  as  in  blood  in  the  vermilion  light, 

Where  broken  tombs  are  leaning  'gainst  the  skies, 

One  city,  of  the  dead,  beneath  me  lies 

And  one  is  stretching  onward  out  of  sight ; 

Within  this  wondrous  scene  is  crowded  might 

And  history  of  Rome ;  its  victories, 

Ambitions,  valors,  its  defeats  and  sighs, 

And  life  and  death  of  centuries  drowned  in  night. 

Yet  haply  men  may  see,  though  Rome  is  old, 

Heroes  more  noble  than  the  Caesars  rise 

And  win  her  new  renown ;  nay,  may  behold 

Apostle  that  shall  all  the  world  surprise, 

Whose    creed    divine   may    'cross   the   heavens   be 

told, 
And  the  blind  Past  anoint  the  Future's  eyes. 


Ill 

UNTO  THE  HILLS 

Beyond  the  Church  of  St.  Sebastian  lie 

The  ruins  of  the  splendid  tomb  of  one 

Who    died   when   Rome   was    young — the    setting 

sun 

Lingering  awhile  in  scarlet  majesty, 
While  bathing  it  in  glory,  seems  to  sigh 
That  death  must  be,  as  for  the  ages  done — 
Then  Rome  is  plunged  in  gloom ;  Rome  overrun 
With  its  dead  multitudes,  and  those  to  die. 
Unto  the  hills,  grim  shadowed,  I  look  up, 
Searching  the  gloom,  some  peak  of  light  to  gain, 
For  at  another  feast  I  fain  would  sup, 
Who  have  grown  satiate  at  the  feast  of  pain, 
Since   though    these   millions   dead,   drained   deep 

the  cup 
Of  life's  despair — the  cup  has  filled  again. 


152      Kn  a  Portuguese 


IV 

A  DREAM 

I  dreamed  a  dream  of  Rome  ;  I  saw  the  light 
On  its  seven  hills  drop  from  its  burning  red 
To  thickest  gloom,  as  though  the  sun  lay  dead, 
Slaughtered  with  its  own  writhing  rays,  at  sight 
Of   splendors   wrecked;     then,    reeking    with    the 

night, 

While  classic  marbles  splintered  to  the  tread 
Of  ruthless  feet  through  aisles  of  temples  led, 
The  shadowy  city  vanished,  wormed  with  blight  :  — 
O  fallen  Rome!  my  soul  with  grief  profound 
Sits  'mid  the  ruins  of  its  golden  prime, 
Like     thee  —  accurst.     Like     thee,     with     gaping 

wound, 
That  bleeds   unstanched  ;   like   thee,   beckoned   to 

climb 
To    mine    own    fall.     Yet    fallen  —  scourged  —  dis 

crowned, 
From    such   high   bliss   dream  even    to    fall,    sub 

lime. 


Kn  a  Portugue0e  <$arDen       153 
v 

MOONLIGHT  IN  ROME 

A  flood  of  silver  falls  across  the  plain 
And   drowns    the   hills,    where    sing   the    nightin 
gales, 
And   fluttering   moths   with    their     outspreading 

sails 

In  the  translucent  air  hold  velvet  reign. 
The    white,    bare-bosomed    moon,    from    vane    to 

vane, 

Its  glory  o'er  the  sleeping  city  trails, 
And  like  a  queen,  that  a  lost  bauble,  hails, 
Rome,  its  endazzling  crescent  wears  again. 
From    off    the   lambent    heavens    the    stars    have 

flown, 

I  know  not  where,  and  yet,  as  seas  on  seas 
Of  lilies  on  the  Campagna  wave,  new  blown, 
I  half  believe  that,  orbit-held,  all  these 
Once  on  the  sky  in  calm  resplendence  shone 
And  knew  the  secrets  of  the  Pleiades. 


VI 

IN  ROME 

I  trod  Rome  in  the  grandeur  of  its  past, 
Not  ruined  Rome ;  with  waving  palms  and  flowers. 
And  fountains  playing  in  enchanting  bowers, 
And  courts,  and  squares,  with  gay  crowds,  bril 
liant  massed, 

With  gorgeous  palaces,  and  columns  vast, 
And  looming,  golden  dripping,   'bove  its   towers, 
St.  Peters,  drenched  in  sun  enflooding  showers, 
Into  a  sapphire  flame  its  great  dome  cast ; 
The  splendid  empire  at  its  splendid  height ; 
Revelers  and  bursts  of  music,  and  the  air 
Areek  with  careless  mirth,  and  lined  in  sight 
Th'  eternal  hills,  serene  and  calm  and  fair 
As  if  on  guard,  in  their  eternal  might, 
To  cradle  it  in  splendor  or  despair. 


3n  a  Portugue0e  Parpen       155 

VII 

AT  ST.  PETER'S 

Heavy  as  with  the  prayers  of  centuries 
Within   the  dim  cathedral  hung  the  air 
With  incense  thick,  and  with  the  "Glorias"  there 
The  great  bell's  booming  clangor  seemed  to  rise 
As  if  it  would  bear  up  earth's  suppliant  cries 
To  heart  of  heaven.     Above  the  altar  fair, 
Lit  by  the  tapers  with  their  saffron  flare, 
Down   from   the   cross   shone   Christ's  beseeching 

eyes — 

O  Rome,  of  all  thy  matchless  jewels  worn 
St.  Peter's  is  most  fair!     Lo,  as  I  came 
Slow   from   its   doors,   the   swooning   sun,  death- 
borne, 

Flooded  with  a  great  sea  of  jasper  flame 
Its   dome   and  thee. — Why    for    the    dead    past 

mourn 
Who  still  such  vast  magnificence  can  claim? 


156      3n  a  Portuguese  <$arDen 

VENICE 

i 

VENICE  AT  SUNRISE 

A    BURNISHED    light    through    morning's    bosom 

flows, 

As  the  sun  rises,  at  the  trumpet's  sound, 
And  the  new  day  leaps  up  with  arms  unbound 
And  drenches  Venice  in  a  flood  of  rose ; 
A  sapphire,  in  the  blushing  distance  shows, 
And  from  the  Grand  Canal  lights  glitter  round, 
And     lone,     mid     spires     and     domes     vermilion 

crowned, 

San  Marco,   as  with  benediction  glows : 
O  city  of  enchantment,  sunrise  kissed, 
Whose  palaces  and  archways,  centuries   fold, 
Whose  lions  of  St.  Marc,  unroused,  resist 
Time's  finger  prints,  how  shouldst  thou  e'er  grow 

old, 

When  here,  uplifted  to  Art's  eucharist, 
Titian  and  Veronese  their  deathless  visions  told? 


3n  a  portugue0e  Parpen       157 

ii 

VENICE  IN  RAIN 

Rainfall  in  Venice  and  the  skies  are  gray 

And    heavy    clouds    engathering    here    and    there 

Have  drifted  lowering  to  the  horizon,  where 

Gulfed  in  the  gloom,  St.  Mark's  is  hidden  away ! 

A  muffling  mist  is  hanging  o'er  the  Bay, 

Where  lie  the  gondolas  undecked  and  bare, 

And  ashen  drops  are  trickling  through  the  air 

Like  tragic  tears  wept  by  the  shrouded  day. 

I  turn  to  Venice  of  my  dreams,  with  gold 

Of  its  sun  sprinkled  air,  and  skies  aglow, 

With    fountains,    radiant    crowds,    and    marbles 

scrolled; 

Music  in  Swirls  and  Tasso's  deathless  flow 
And  Venice  at  its  splendid  height  behold 
And  splendid  measure  of  its  triumph  know. 


158      3n  a  Portuguese  harden 

SWITZERLAND 

I 

TO  THE  ALPS 

GREAT  Alps,  with  glaciers  glittering  in  the  light 
Of  the  gold-sandaled  sun,  whose  peaks  uprise 
And  gild  the  sapphire  floor  of  Paradise, 
Whose  giant  Jungfrau,  with  its  flaming  might, 
Leaning  the  heavens,  in  dazzle  of  its  height, 
Seems  plunged  therein,  up  from  your  caves  come 

cries, 

As  from  imprisoned  gods,  and  virgin  sighs 
Of  winds  that  waken  music  in  their  flight ! 
Wrapt  in  the  white  of  your  eternal  snows, 
With  fleecy  clouds  that  o'er  your  summits  ride, 
I  can  recall  you,  when  the  twilight  goes, 
And  in  the  Night's  stupendous  arms  ye  hide ; 
As  if  the  glory  in  your  bosoms  froze, 
And  with  the  anguish  of  eclipse  ye  died. 


3n  a  Portuguese  <$atDen       159 

ii 

SUMMER  IN  SWITZERLAND 

I  looked  out  on  the  Alps — afar  they  shone, 
Through  the  translucence  of  the  noontide  air, 
With  their  snow  mantled  peaks  enclustering  fair, 
Like  lilies  on  the  heart  of  heaven  full  blown; 
Beneath,     the     lake     with     shattered     rainbows 

strewn. 

Ran  on  its  sinuous  way,  and  here  and  there 
Flashed  radiant  messages   aloft,  to  where 
The  Jungf rau  beckoned  on  its  frozen  throne ; 
The  eternal  peaks  beneath  the  zenithed  sun 
Imperial  lifted,  seemed  to  prick  the  sky 
And  all  the  light  with  which  it  was  o'errun 
In  its  sublimity  rushed  flooding  by, 
And  glittering  drowned  them  in  it,  one  by  one, 
While  almost,  almost  I  heard  summer  sigh. 


160      jn  a  Portuguese  Garden 

DEFIANCE 

AGE,  I  defy  thee,  though  thou  hold'st  me  fast, 
Though    I    have   heard   the    sound     of     rustling 

wings, 

And  threnodies   of  pines,  so  many  Springs, 
And  plucked  the  violets  to  lay  at  last 
Upon  beloved  hearts,  with   grief   so   vast 
Aeons  might  reek  with  it,  yet  April  brings 
To   my   dumb  soul   aghast  with  voiceless   things 
A  call  to  new  hope  like  a  bugle  blast : — 
— Thou    hast    half    beggared,    yet    I    scorn    thy 

power, 

Nor  canst  thou,  to  forget,  my  soul  ensnare, 
But  death  will  rivaling  come  some  sunrise  hour, 
And  bring  to  me,  blown  in  the  luminous  air 
Of  Love's  unzoned  Immense,  the  shining  flower 
Of  what,  in  living  embryoed,  was  Despair. 


Kn  a  Portugue0e  <£>arDen 


I  STOOD  UPON  A  MOUNT 

I  STOOD  upon  a  mount  that  scarred  the  sky, 
And   every   blade    of   grass     was     touched     with 

blight- 
Where  blazing  suns  blazed  down  with  withering 

might, 

And  lightning  blasted  trees  hung  dead  and  dry  ; 
Eagles  with  fierce-lit  eyes  swooped  from  on  high 
With  savage  motion,   clutching  murderous  tight 
Warm,  quivering  creatures  —  talon-torn  in  flight, 
And  held  me  shuddering  as  they  thundered  by. 
O  cowering  soul!     Behold,  thou  lingerest  yet 
In    that    dread     place,     and    seest    thy   pathway 

strewn 

With  eagles  bleaching  prey.     Rise  up  and  set 
Thy     drooping    wings     toward     Faith's     diviner 

zone; 

Rise!     Rise  until  this  black  mount  of  regret 
Into  transfiguration   shall  be  grown. 


BOOK  VI 
SONGS  OF  THE  SEASONS 


JANUARY 

I 

SNOW 

0  SHINING  world  that  liest  as  in  a  dream, 
With  all  thy  rugged  nakedness  disguised, 
On  which  the  imperial  sun  looks  down,  surprised 
At  thy  new  grace,  snow-crowned,  thou  wear'st  a 

gleam 

As  if,  from  winter's  dreariness  supreme, 
Thy  white  eclipse  revolt  hast  signalized, 
And  hills  and  valleys  have  been  all  apprised 
Of  this  soft  power  thy  beauty  to  redeem ; 
Shine  on ;  the  gloomy  autumn  has  gone  by, 
And  the  young  spring  is  stirring  at  thy  side, 
Clamoring  for  thee  to  waken  and  reply. 
O  world,  not  long  wilt  thou  consent  to  bide 
In  such  chill  sleep,  for  soon,  soon,  with  glad  sigh, 
Thou  wilt  arise,  resplendent  as  a  bride. 


165 


166      3n  a  Portuguese  <$artien 

ii 

RAIN 

O  rain,  that  beatest  eastward  through  the  air, 
Malignant  rival  of  the  illumined  snow, 
Jealous  thou  searchest  earth,  as  if  to  know 
How  soon  its  every  sinew  thou  mayst  bare ! 
Thou  hast  no  pity,  nor  canst  even  spare 
The  meadow's  secrets ;  nay,  its  hollows  low 
Insisteth  fierce  to  rob,  as  dismal,  so 
Thou    wouldst    rebuke   the   wild   flowers    sleeping 

there ; 

Will  naught  but  earth's  gaunt  skeleton  content? 
From  dripping  branches  of  the  trees,  have  gone 
The  rainbows,  'neath  which  yesterday  they  bent, 
And,  lo !  they  seem  to  point  at  thee  with  scorn, 
As  if  they  knew,  earth's  brief  transfigurement 
Thou   hadst   o'erthrown  because   thyself  forlorn. 


a 


in 

SUNSHINE 

O  sun,  that  hast  o'ermastered  snow  and  rain, 

Yea,  almost  conquered  winter,  with  thy  gold, 

Thou  hast   forgotten   time,   and   seekest  bold 

To  dupe  with  smile  of  spring,  but  all  in  vain  ; 

Unsoftened  by  thy  glances  all  the  plain 

Is  but  a  dreary  stretch  of  frozen  mold, 

And  earth's   great  heart  in  lethargy  of  cold 

Unheaving  still  beneath  thee  lies  ;  behold 

Thou  hast  not  reached  the  zenith  of  thy  reign  — 

Yet    shouldst    thou    sudden    veil    thy    face,    some 

blast 
Blown    from    the    hills    may   trumpet    change    to 

thee, 

And  sinking  shuddering  from  the  horizon  vast, 
Thou  mayst  outblotted  by  a  whirlwind  be  ; 
Yet  not  for  long,  thou  wilt  proclaim  at  last 
The  lilied  spring,  glad  with  maternity. 


168      3n  a  Portuguese 


FEBRUARY 

I 

MOONLIGHT  IN  FEBRUARY 

BEND  low,  O  moon,  that  risest  calm  and  fair 
And  with  thy  flame  of  silver  searchest  night 
As  if  its  soul  to  read,  and  drownest  light 
Of  the  bewildered  stars  ;  bend  low,  to  where 
List'ning,  thou  mayest  hear,  fretting  in  the  air 
The  first  faint  cry  of  spring,  for  neath  the  blight 
That  shrivels  the  midwinter's  heart,  lies  might, 
New  forces  through  its   frozen  veins  to  bear!  — 
Where  the  sun's  funeral  pageant  left  the  place, 
Lo  !  'bove  the  smoldering  ashes  of  the  day 
Unheeding  thou  look'st  down,  and  in  white  grace, 
I  see  thee  shining  on,  as  to  obey 
Heaven's    changeless    laws  ;    nor    can    I    know    or 

trace 
What  voices  signal,  as  thou  climb'st  thy  way, 


a  Portuue0e  <g>arDen       169 


ii 

FEBRUARY   AT   THE   SEA 

The  wind-blown  snow  that  o'er  the  marshes  flew, 
Has  settled  into  drifts  and  o'er  them  lie, 
Dropt  as  in  benediction  from  the  sky, 
The  frozen  shadows  of  its  matchless  blue  ; 
They  seem  like  monuments  set  up  as  clew 
To  graves  of  marigolds,  and  wild  birds  fly 
Wheeling  above  them,  and  from  ocean  nigh 
Are  rolled   forth  symphonies  forever  new  — 
I  look  upon  th'  entrancing  scene  spellbound  ; 
For  sunlit  trees  upon  their  branches  wear 
Millions   of   rainbows    and   the   earth   is    crowned 
With  such  strange  light,  almost  it  seems  as  fair 
As  when  the  daffodils  lit  up  the  ground 
And  flaming  orioles  winged  the  summer  air. 


170      3n  a  l£>ortuguese  barton 


MARCH 


WHO    can    reproach    thee    that    thou    tak'st    thy 

place 

With  shy  reserve,  O  March,  coming  from  chill 
Of  Winter's   funeral  rites,  and  holding  still 
Traces  of  countless  tears  upon  thy  face? 
Yet  thou  wear'st  something  of  the  Spring's  wild 

grace, 

For  grasses  have  grown  brighter  with  the  thrill 
Of  the  new  currents  that  thine  arteries  fill 
And    swiftened    run,    warmed    by    the    sun's    em 
brace  ; 

And  in  the  gullied  meadows,  moisture  bound, 
Cradles  of  swamp-flowers,  purple  in  the  light, 
And  bushes,  pointed  leaved,  will  soon  be  crowned 
With  bloom  aquiver,  as  for  airy  flight; 
O  Spring,  dear  Spring,  whose  breath  so  stirs  the 

ground ! 
How  canst  be  silent  daffodils  in  sight? 


Jn  a  Portuguese  harden       171 


ii 


Thou     seemest     drowsing     still,     although     with 

might 

Of  the  years'  giant  forces  running  high, 
Divinest  murmurs  through  the  ether  fly 
As  if  escaping  thee  with  pure  delight. 
The  skies  are  bluer,   and  from  height  to  height 
A  glittering  glory  runs,  and  winds  go  by 
Searching  thy   radiant  presence   to   descry 
And  rouse  thee   from  thy  dreaming  into   flight ; 
—Waken,  0  laggard  Spring,  for  near  and  far 
The  sighs  of  hyacinths  assail  the  air, 
As  if  their  purple  prisons  were  ajar; 
Waken,  and  let  my  soul,  dull  with  despair, 
Rejoice  with  thee,  who  wilt  unloose  each  bar 
And  on  thy  breast  the  escaping  wild  flowers  wear. 


a  Portuguese  <$arDen 


in 


Thou  hast  arisen,  for  sun  on  sun  has  sent 
Its  shining  lances  over  hill  and  plain, 
And  the  warm  winds  have  blown  up  gusts  of  rain, 
And  from  the  hillsides  tumbling  waters  rent ; 
The  somber  willows  o'er  the  rivers  bent 
Unfurl    their    dazzling    feathery    fans    again, 
And  now  and  then  is  heard  a  matchless  strain, 
The  rapture  of  a  bluebird  finding  vent. 
Thou   hast  been   turbulent,  because   of  sting 
Of  embryoed  flowers ;  but  soon  at  thy  decree 
Anemones  will  smile  and  trilliums  bring 
Their  silver  shining  fonts,  where  thou  shalt  be 
In  thine  own  tears  baptized  again,  O  Spring, 
With  the  new  name  of  April  waiting  thee. 


3fn  a  Portuguese  harden       ITS 


IV 


The  clouds  have  smitten  the  sun  to  a  dull  glow, 
Plunging  in  gloomy  billows   'cross  the  sky, 
And  the  unquiet  winds  go  hurrying  by, 
Whirling  the  tiny  tracks  from  out  the  snow 
Of  countless  sparrows,  and  half  plaintive  sigh 
Across   the  shivering  trees,  where  swollen  lie 
A    thousand    smoldering,    warm-hued   buds,    that 

sigh, 

Yet  'neath  their  icy  veilings  dare  not  blow. 
Hast  thou  forgotten,  0  March,  in  thine  unrest, 
The    glittering    crocuses    with   gold    agleam? 
Let   flow    thy    tears — for   tears     that     rain     thy 

breast 

Transformed   to   wild   flowers,   will   thy   past   re 
deem; 
Thou    art   but     child    with     Spring's   new   cares 

opprest, 

And    canst    not    rouse    thee    from    thy    troubled 
dream. 


174,      Kn  a  Portuguese 


Thy  dream  has  vanished,  for  behold  on  high 
The  sun  is  rioting  in  dazzling  blue, 
And  where  the  snow  lay,  shines  a  film  of  dew 
Transfigured  by  the  noonday's  ecstasy ; 
The   alien   winds,   sudden   affrighted,   fly 
Their  southern  rival,  that  with  music  low 
Murmurs    accompaniments   to   streams   that  flow 
Where  violet  shadows  from  the  mountains  lie ; 
From  out  the  nightmare  of  thy  child-tossed  sleep 
Thou  hast  at  last  arisen,  smiling  fair, 
And  with  a  power  ineffable  wilt  sweep 
Spring's     sweet    contagion     through    the    enam 
ored  air, 
And    round   thy   brow    sun's    rays   will   haste   to 

leap 
Who   wert   appointed   oriflamme   to   wear. 


a  Portuguese  harden       175 


VI 


The  wind  is  blowing  southward  down  the  hills, 
Damp  with  the  vaporous  phantoms  of  the  snow, 
And  o'er  the  peevish  sky  the  vexed  clouds  go 
Hurrying    toward    the   beckoning   daffodils. 
There  is   a  rushing  sound  of  mountain  rills 
That,  discontent  with  their  high  places,  go 
Edging  the  valley  lands  where  willows  grow, 
Whose  scent  the  sunshine  flings  forth  as  it  wills ; 
Inconstant      March !      fractious       and       stormy 

browed, 

Almost  thou  seem'st  thine  own  moods   to  assail, 
Seeking    from    morn's    their    saffron    lights    to 

crowd 

And  flashing  of  thy  fickle  smiles  to  veil ; 
Yet,  though  thou  buglest  low,  or  buglest  loud, 
Thou  art  the  Spring — the  Spring  that  blue  birds 

hail. 


iT6      3n  a  Iportiiguese  harden 


APRIL 

i 

APRIL 

WITH  shining  eyes  across  the  purple  hills, 

Shaking  to  earth  her  glittering,  sun-rayed  hair, 

With  mist  and  dew,  and  perfume  everywhere, 

Comes  the  young  April  crowned  with  daffodils  : 

The  mystery  of  her  golden  presence  thrills 

Anemones  to  trembling  in  the  air, 

And  wakes  a  butterfly  that  gauzy  fair 

With    streaming   banners    her   behest    fulfills  ; 

Divine  foretold  by  intimations  low, 

Like  soft  escape  of  seashells  murmuring, 

The  verdant  grasses  'neath  her  footsteps  grow, 

And  the  white  lilies  to  her  garments  cling  ; 

And  Pan,  dead  Pan,   comes   back,   once  more  to 

blow 
A  wild  sweet  welcome  to  the  wild   sweet   spring. 

Blow  Pan,  how  can  Thine  eyelids  but  unfold 
When  loosened  rivers  clamor  thee  to  rise, 
When  mammoth  womb  of  earth,  aleap  with  cries 
Of  flowers  yet  undelivered,  shakes  the  mold? 
Thou  mayest  mistake  her  with  her  locks  of  gold 
For  Aphrodite,  till  within  her  eyes, 
Maternal   yearning,   thou   shalt   recognize 
Twin   violets   that   violets  behold  — 


3fn  a  Portuguese  <£>arDen       177 

If  thou  wert  dead  and  she  has  wakened  thee 
With  lilies,   silver  bells,  list  their  refrain 
And  chime  thy  notes  to  their  white  melody 
Till    constellate    daisies,    shimmering,    light    the 

plain — 

Blow  Pan,  but  let  thy  flute-charmed  soul  decree 
Thou  shalt  blow  April  thy  divinest  strain. 


178      in  a  Portitgiie0e  <£>arDen 

ii 

MOONLIGHT 

Fair  moon  that  silver  sandaled  climb'st  on  high 
As  if  to  reach  a  place  we  may  not  know, 
Bring  from  therein  some  mystic  bloom  to  show 
Its   shining  hearted  flowers   can  blight  defy ; 
Glide  up  thine  April  path,  till,  through  the  sky, 
From  a  new  April  thou  shalt  bring  new  glow, 
Drenched  in  the  light  of  pinions  as  they  go 
Winging  toward   the  throne  eternally — 
Thou   seem'st   with   hyacinthine    spring   inspired, 
Thy  great  heart  crescent  beating  in  the  east, 
As  if  thou  knewest  what  its  soul  desired 
And  decked  thyself  for   resurrection's   feast, 
Hearing  its  countless  anthems  lily-choired, 
White,  with  incarnate  glory  of  its  priest. 


Jn  a  Portuguese  harden       179 


in 

THREE  APRIL  MOODS 

The  jonquil  fires  have  hidden  the  skies'  deep  blue 
At  mandate  of  the  sun,  and  downward  rolled 
From  off  the  glittering  hills,  the  liquid  gold 
Falls   on   the   thick,   soft  grasses,   drenched  with 

dew; 
The  warm  winds,  blowing  from  the  south,  steal 

through 

The  ruddy  maple  boughs  and  half  unfold 
Their  scarlet  pennants,  and  with  color  bold 
Tall  tulip-torches  flame  and  flare  anew; 
Up  from  the  emerald  valleys  comes  the  bleat 
Of  glad  young  lambs  that  in  the  pastures  play, 
And  far  and  near  the  shrill  voiced  cocks  repeat 
Their  strenuous,  noisy  welcomes  to  the  day, 
And,  high  o'er  all  by  April,  bugled  sweet 
Spring's   jubilates   break   from  spring  away. 

The  minstrel  winds  are  hither  wandering, 

The  eager  minstrel  winds  that  as  they  stray 

Upon  a  thousand  lutes  of  April  play, 

And  from  the  hearts  of  all  things  growing  bring 

Immeasurable  music  of  the  spring. 

Oh,  soul  divine,  exultant  go  thy  way 

And  with  the  daffodils  keep  holiday, 

For  the  whole  world  is  new,  when  blue  birds  sing. 

Pale  tipped,  the  hemlocks   in  the  sunshine  glow, 


180      3n  a  Portuguese 


And  silver  shoots  hide  fair  the  willow  scars, 
And  butterflies   have  'scaped  their  shrouds,   and 

lo, 
"The  stones   are   rolled,   from   the  flower  sepul- 

chers  ;" 
Oh   soul,   watch   bloom    from   graves    arisen,    and 

know 
Thou,  too,  shalt  one  day  break  thy  prison  bars. 

Across  the  hills  I  heard  the  spring's  voice  call, 
And   straightway,   light-anointed,   I   became 
Lifted  to  the  Most  High,  for,  clad  in  flame, 
The  dazzling  sun  o'er  rode  the  horizon  wall 
And  let  a  measure  of  his  glory  fall, 
Till  earth  a  semblance  to  the  heavens  could 

claim  ; 

And  so  baptized  and  shriven  from  the  past  shame 
Of  my  despairs,  I  shook  my  soul,  like  Saul.  — 
O  April,  grief  and  I  have  since  grown  old; 
Nor  canst  thou,  calling  now  o'er  all  the  land, 
Waken  such  perfect  hour;  nor  can  the  gold 
With     which     thy     morning     skies     is     flooding 

spanned 

O'ertake  that  shore,  mine  eyes  would  fain  behold, 
Whereon  the  feet  of  my  beloved  stand. 


3n  a  Portugue0e  (garden       isi 

IV 

IN  APRIL 

Elusive  vision,  fluttering  here  and  there 

In  April's  shimmering  iridescent  guise, 

Thou   comest  bannered  with  cerulean   skies, 

And  rioting  of  sunshine  everywhere ; 

To-day   thy   flooding   teardrops   drench   the   air ; 

Is  it  thou  knowest  that  in  each  warm  tear 

lies 

An   embryoed   wildflower   that   will   newborn    rise 
And  drinking  of  thy  fairness  grow  more  fair? 
Thou  glad,  sad  Presence,  how  couldst  other  be 
Since  Spring's  strange  tumults  through  thy 

pulses  flow? 

All  that  is  beautiful  comes  back  to  thee. 
The     maples'     wind-blown     flame,     the    jonquils' 

glow, 

And  out  of  but  too  golden  ecstasy — 
Thy   tears   fall   fast,   fall   fast,  while   lilies  blow. 

Thou  dazzling  sun,  caught  in  a  vaporous  net, 
And  from  its  flimsy  meshes  struggling  free, 
Up  through  the  illumined  ether  I  can  see 
Thine   unveiled  bosom   toward  the   noontide   set ; 


182      3n  a  Portuguese  <$ar&en 

Thou  light'st  the  harebell  and  the  violet, 
And  gild'st  the  unweaned  cowslips,  born  of  thee, 
And  openest  buds  that  blush  on  every  tree, 
And  lift'st  the  last  year's  grasses,  lingering  yet: 
O  warm  rayed  sun,  too  long  I  have  given  heed 
To  sound  of  sighing  in  the  wash  of  seas ; 
Shine    forth,    that    Spring's    new    music    may   be 

freed ! 

Thou  wak'st  the  birds,  and  butterflies,  and  bees 
And  earth  itself  from  dreams — Canst  thou  not 

lead 
My  soul  to  joy's  full  eminence,  like  these? 


Jn  a  Portuguese  ®atDcn       iss 

v 

AN  APRIL   SUNSET 

Sink,  amber  sun,  and  drown  in  amber  light, 
The  day  is  ended,  and  thou  hear'st  the  call 
Of  purple-hearted  night,  whose  purple  wall, 
Bridging  the  West,  hides  thee  awhile  from  sight : 
Thou  hast  kissed  flowers  to  bloom,  and  from  the 

height 

Of  the  emblazoned  hilltops  hast  let  fall 
Thine  April  ecstasy,  enflooding  all ; 
Let  death's   magnificence   for  death  requite, 
Thou  hast  made  fairer  what  hast  looked  upon, 
Yet  hadst  thou  lingered  longer,  it  might  be 
Imperishable  power  thou  mightst  have  won ; 
For  ah,  thou  knewest  not,  nor  yet  couldst  see 
While  full,  full  on  me,  all  day  thou  hast  shone, 
Not  thine,  not  thine  the  splendor  dazzling  me ! 


184      an  a  Portuguese  (garden 

VI 

IN  EARLY  SPRING 

I  turned  me  to  the  eastward,  from  whence  came 
A  soft,  low  singing,  as  from  out  the  sun ; 
And  all  the  blood  of  April  seemed  to  run 
'Cross  the  embosomed  chrysoprase,  like  flame. 
I  turned  me  to  the  hills,  and  lo,  the  same 
Transcendent  calling,  woke  them,  one  by  one, 
And  o'er  their  crests  a  silver  veil  was  spun 
The  magic  of  the  morning  to  proclaim : 
— O  pulsing,  mystic  ecstasy  of  sound, 
As  if  some  prisoned  rapture  had  found  wing! 
O  violets  soft  stirring  in  the  ground, 
Each  blossom  sighing  like  some  living  thing, 
How  can  I  ever  doubt,  so  compassed  round, 
That  I  have  heard  the  first  faint  cry  of  Spring? 

Yes,  thou  art  new  born  Spring,  thou  radiant 

one, 

Aerial  messenger  of  growing  things, 
Spirit  that  brightenest  forest  shadowings, 


Sn  a  Portuguese  <$arDen       iss 

Who  hast,  unseen,  thy  miracles  begun ; 

For  earth  with  soft  young  grasses,  is  o'errun, 

And  in  the  clear,  transparent  ether  rings 

A  sound  as  if  innumerable  wings 

Were  rhythmic,  sweeping  upward  to  the  sun ; 

— Thou  calledst  me  softly,  with  thy  voice  divine, 

The  glories  of  thy  countless  flowers  to  share, 

And  'bove  each  golden  daffodil  of  thine; 

And  all  thy  lilies  opening  white  and  fair, 

I  seem  to  see,  as  they  transfigured  shine, 

A  cloud-wrapt  vision  rising  through  the  air. 


186      3n  a  Pottugue0e 


Fleet-winged  thou  art,  yet  captive  of  the  sky  ; 
Prisoner    of    all    the    unmeasured    heavens,    yet 

free, 

Illumining  the  earth  and  air  and  sea, 
And  more  elusive  than  the  birds  that  fly  ; 
The  impulse  of  the  streams  that  wander  by 
And  kiss  the  mountain  shadows,  comes  from  thee; 
And  south  winds,  loitering  from  tree  to  tree, 
Whisper,   aeolian-voiced,   that   thou   art   nigh. 
O  restless,  dazzling,  prisoner  of  light, 
Thou  canst  not  hide  thee  wholly  in  the  blue, 
For  swept  with  thine  own  splendor  into  flight, 
Thou   shimmerest  iridescent  into  view  ; 
And  with  thy  touch  ineffable  in  might, 
'Scaped   from  the  heavens,  hast  made  the  whole 

earth  new. 


a 


MAY 


HASTE   hitherward,   O   month   of  flashing  wings ; 
I  long  to  hear  along  thy  valleys  blown 
The  murmurous  music  of  Spring's  undertone 
Divine,  with  breathing  of  its  new  born  things ; 
Hasten   and  bring  the  nightingale  that   sings, 
When   thou  art  nigh,  unto   thy  heart   alone, 
And  secret  of  its  sweet  despair  will  own 
But  to  the  moon  that  on  thy  bosom  clings ; 
Beloved  of  Aphrodite !      Haste  and  wake 
The  lilies  that  along  thy  path  will  blow 
Enamored    with    thine    eyes !     Haste    thee,    and 

take 

Unto  the  rose  the  blush  it  fain  would  know! 
Thou  art  so  beautiful,  and  thou  canst  make 
The  world  so  beautiful,  why  com'st  so  slow. 


188      Hn  a  Portuguese 


ii 


Here,  here  thou  art,  thou  flower  breasted  Spring, 
And  from  thy  sun's  gold  heart  the  glad,  warm 

rays 

Have  glittering  pierced   the  evanescent  haze, 
And  to  the  hillcrests,  radiant-reaching,   cling. 
Into  a  swirl  of  glory  west  winds  fling 
The  full-orbed  marguerites  that  star  the  ways, 
And  orioles,  winging  with  their  breasts  ablaze 
Unto  the  silvery  blossoms,  silvery  sing. — 
There  is  a  dazzle  over  all  the  land, 
A  light,  ethereal  shimmering  everywhere, 
And  the  whole  shining  universe  is  spanned 
With  beauty  palpitate,  and  the  stirred  air 
Seems  as  it  had  the  power  at  its  command 
Into  earth's  soul,  the  soul  of  heaven  to  bear. 


3n  a  Portuguese  <$artien 


in 


Over  the  grasses  wet  with  April  rain, 

Whose  damps  still  linger  'neath  thy  forest  trees, 

Thou  comest  thy  way  with  lilies  and  with  bees. 

Kissing  magnolias  into  bloom  again. 

The  willows,   listening  to   the  tides'   refrain, 

Borne   into  undulating  harmonies, 

Dream  silver  dreams  once  more,  and  every  breeze 

Breathes  secrets  of  the  clover  on  the  plain. — 

Thou  bringst  the  blushing  iridescent  skies, 

The    sapphire    noons,    the    dawns'    pale    chryso- 

prase, 

The  sunshine,  haunted  with  the  butterflies, 
And    perfect    twilights,   born    of   perfect    days— 
What  lackest  thou  that  I  should  turn  mine  eyes 
And  search  the  shadows  of  thy  loneliest  wavs? 


190      Jn  a  Pottugue0e  <£>arDen 


IV 


Thou  com'st  incarnate  of  the  Spring — and  yet, 

I  plead  with  thee  for  more  than  bloom  and  light ; 

Bring  back  a  hope  that  will  my  soul  requite 

For  its  long  desolation  and  regret. 

Once,  when  I  plucked  a  late,  sweet  violet, 

I  was  so  raptured  that  I  felt  Spring's  might 

Run   scarlet   through  my  veins ;  now,  now   what 

right 

Have  I,  whom  thou  art  part  of,  to  forget? 
For  thou  returnest  each  year  as  to  declare 
Thou  art  unchanged;  why  then  may  I  not  know 
Fulfillment  of  desire  sometime,  somewhere? 
I  will  commune  with  thee,  for  thou  canst  show 
Death  is  not  death,  and  so,  weaned  from  despair, 
I    shall  be  glad   once    more    because   the   violets 

blow. 


3Jn  a  Portuguese  harden       191 


Swift,    swift    thou    com'st    with    thine    imperial 

days, 

With  dawns  ineffable,  and  winds  that  blow 
Bearing  the   swallows   hitherward,   and  flow 
Of   silver   streams   singing   through   forest   ways, 
Thy    suns    fling    broadcast    their    transfiguring 

rays 

The  imminent  rapture  of  thy  bloom  to  show, 
And  all  the  perfumed  ether  is  aglow 
With  blushing  buds  of  lilacs  swung  to  haze ; 
The  beauty  in  thy  soul  thou  settest  free, 
To   flower   thy   fields,    and   make   thy   hills   more 

fair; 

So  fair,  so  fairer  still,  they  grow  to  be, 
'Neath  the  exceeding  light  they,  sky-kissed,  wear, 
I  half  expect,  charmed  back  to  earth,  to  see 
The  gods,  as  in  Olympia,  roaming  there. 


192       3n  a  Portuguese  <$arDen 


VI 


The   fretted   skies   have  wept   themselves   to  mist 
And  their  dull  gray  has  melted  into  blue, 
And  wild  birds  call  to  Spring,  as  if  they  knew 
The  hills  would  soon  be  crowned  with  amethyst ; 
The  hyacinths  and  crocuses,  sun  kissed, 
Startled     to     life,     the     sodden     ground     breaks 

through, 

And  o'er  the  last  year's  grasses  steals  a  hue 
As  earth's  new  smile  they  could  not  long  resist ; 
The  sparkling  rivers  passionately  sway, 
Swirling  the  snow-crests  of  the  mountains  by, 
And  willow  branches,  shining  silver  gray, 
Stretch  out,  as  if  exultant,  to  the  sky ; 
And  swifter,  swifter,  swifter,  day  by  day 
The  Spring,   the   fair  young  Spring,  is  drawing 

nigh. 


3n  a  Portuguese  harden       193 


VII 


O  saffron  lights  that  palpitate  and  flame 
On  bosom  of  the  East !  beneath  your  fire 
Of  blazing  splendor,  that  each  morn  sweeps 

higher 

As  if  earth's  resurrection  to  proclaim, 
The  opening  daffodils  ye  put  to  shame ; 
While  April,  stirred  with  music's  soft  desire, 
Listening  the  bluebirds  that  your  gleams  aspire, 
Sings  lullabies  her  vagrant  winds  to  tame; 
A  murmurous  rapture  seems  to  haunt  the  dells, 
Like  the  faint  breathing,  indistinct  and  sweet, 
Of  new-born  violets ;  and  sound  of  bells 
That  chimed  by  lilies  muffled  seem  to  beat 
Through  their  own  perfumes,  like  a  signal  tells 
The  presence  of  the  Spring  ye  climb  to  greet. 


194.      3n  a  Portuguese  (gartien 

VIII 

O  jonquils,  gleaming  in  the  crystal  air, 

As  if  from  soul  of  the  great  dazzling  sun, 

Unbarred  to  Spring,  your  color  had  been  won, 

Transfused  with  its   gold  fire,  ye  seem  to  share 

Its  eminence  of  light  and  shine  out  fair 

Beneath  its  glow,  as  if  ye  had  begun 

To    dream    your   orbits,    and,     with     earth   films 

done, 

For  the  bright  rays  ye  covet,  to  prepare ! 
The  butterflies  steal  out,  and  from  their  sleep 
The  drowsy  bees,  half  wakened,  languid,  stay 
Hovering  your  petals,  and  I  hear  the  sweep 
Of  vibrant  chords,  as  if  the  winds  at  play 
Had    loosed    your   music,   while    with    dews    that 

steep, 
O  radiant  flowers !  ye  are  baptized  in  May. 


a  Portuguese  <$arDen       195 


IX 


Pink  lilac  buds  that  tender  violet  grow 
In   the   consummate  splendor  of  the  sun, 
And  white  campanula's,  that  one  by  one 
Your  imminent  music  ring  forth  as  ye  blow ! 
It  is   Spring's   carnival,  and  full  rayed  glow 
The  dandelions  with  their  gold  o'errun, 
And  crowned  with  rainbows  by  the  dewdrops 

spun, 

The   glittering  marguerites   toss   to   and   fro. 
— Around  the  hills  vapors  of  sapphire  cling, 
And  bees  and  butterflies  wing  through  the  air 
As  if  to  every  blossom  they  would  bring 
Sense  of  their  own  divineness !     Yea,  so  fair 
The  Spring  has  grown  that  when  the  bluebirds 

sing 
Almost  my  heart  beats  jubilant  unaware. 


196      3n  a  Portuguese  <$arDen 

x 

SUNRISE 

Gold  fires  that  flaming  upward  burn  the  east, 
As  if  the  Sun-god's  heralds  lit  the  way 
Until  his  chariot  wheels  should  roll  in  Day, 
And  from  the  stars  that  held  them,  be  released ; 
Ere  the  great  pageant  overhead  has   ceased, 
I  see  your  dazzling  colors  reel  and  sway, 
Until  they  melt  to  chrysoprase  of  May ; — 
And,  lo !  marvels  of  morn  are  but  increased ; 
O  soul  of  heaven !     0  mystery  palpitate, 
On  flowers   innumerable  thou  lookest  down 
And  like  a  mother,  brooding,  seemst  to  wait, 
Yearning  earth's  children,  if  they  smile  or  frown ; 
And  watchest  miracles  of  Spring,  elate, 
Nor  know'st  of  all,  thou  art  thyself  the  crown. 


197 


XI 

A  MAY  SWALLOW 

Swallow,    that    springest    through    the    illumined 

air 
With    thine    impetuous    wings     toward     summer 

pressed, 

Content  thee,  for  in  the  purple  of  the  west 
The  Summer  waits,   its  presence   to  declare  ; 
Too  late  for  daffodils,  thou  comest  ere 
The  wild  rose  dares  to  flaunt  its  golden  breast 
And  morning-glories  filled  with  soft  unrest 
Still   for   their  delicate   tracery   prepare:  — 
Thou  hast  exceeded  Summer  in  thy  race, 
And  golden-breasted  orioles  outflown, 
Content  thee  for  awhile  with  May's  white  grace, 
Nor  restless,  shalt  thou  long  remain  alone, 
For  Summer,  Summer  will  thy  pathway  trace 
And  overtake  thee,  who  art   Summer's  own. 


198      3n  a  Portuguese  harden 

XII 

MAY  SUNRISE  AT  THE  SEASHORE 

Upon  the  sky  areek  with  violet, 

Behold,  eastward  there  grows  a  sudden  blaze, 

As  if  the  beacon  fires  of  classic  days 

Were  burning  still,  for  Agamemnon  set ; 

And  the  great  Sun  leans  from  his  parapet 

And  o'er  the  marigolds  that  mark  the  ways 

Of  the  drained  marsh  lands,  flings  his  splintered 

rays, 

Till  the  whole  shore  with  glory  is  beset; 
And  in  the  distant  fields,  where  cowslips  shine, 
Emblazons    their   cups,   till   their    faint   flecks    of 

red 

Glitter  like  undrained  drops  of  April's  wine ; 
And  Dawn,  with  its  resplendent  wings  outspread, 
Drifts  to  the  sea,  and  signals,  held  divine, 
Its  double  rapture,  to  the  Dawn  o'erhead. 


a  pottugue0e  <£>arDen       199 

XIII 

FROM  AN  EASTERN  WINDOW 

The   morning  blushed,   and   blushed   and  blushed 

once  more, 

And  o'er  its  beating  heart  I  saw  the  flow 
Of  its  encarmined  currents  surging  go, 
And  flood  the  twlight  pallor  of  the  shore : 
The   slumbering  sea   a   glittering  pathway   bore, 
And  far  and  near  the  spires  were  all  aglow, 
Tipped,  as  with  blood,  and  on  the  ground  below 
Where  white   frost  lay,  the  rose  bloomed   as   of 

yore. 

Ah,  when  the  sun  wheels  upward  glittering  bright 
In  regal  trappings,  I  could  almost  share 
In  worship  of  the  East  and  kneel  at  sight: 
I  sometimes  think,  knowing  men  could  not  bear 
The  awful  splendor  of  His  bosom's  light, 
God  flowered  a  Sun  and  left  it  flowering  there. 


200       3n  a  Portuguese 


XIV 

REGRET 

I  had  grown  May  enamored  ;  glad  and  free 
She  went  with  flower-shod  feet  o'er  hill  and  plain, 
But  now  for  her  white  bloom  I  watch  in  vain, 
And  search  her  olden  haunts,  yet  cannot  see 
Which  way  she  vanished.     What  is  June  to  me, 
Who,    listening,    dream    that    I    may    hear    again 
Her  child-voice  singing  even  in  the  rain, 
Who  had  the  soul  of  sweet  Persephone? 
O  rose,  delay  !     Haply  she  had  not  meant 
With  her  sun-blinded  eyes  thy  way  to  choose. 
But,  oh!  the  lilies  breathe  not  where  she  went, 
And  nightingales  her  nightingales   refuse. 
Thou  brib'st  with  June  and  scorn'st  my  discon 

tent, 
But  what  thy  scorn  who  hast  no  May  to  lose? 


Jn  a  Portuguese  Garden       201 


JUNE 


THE  swallows  have  come  back  in  a  swift  race 
For  newer  joys,  cleaving  the  purple  air 
With  their  impetuous  wings,  the  while  they  bear 
The  Summer  hitherward  in  close  embrace ! 

0  matchless  Summer,  with  thy  matchless  grace, 

1  tremble  lest  of  thine  own  power  aware, 
While   still   the   swallows   dart   through    sunshine 

fair, 

Thou  shouldst  escape  them  and  thy  ways  re 
trace. 

Stay,  for  each  beat  of  thy  rose-laden  heart 

Brings  forth  a  strain  from  Joy's  neglected  lyre 

And  I  am  lifted  sunward  as  thou  art. 

Yea,  I  am  winged  with  thee !  O  sweet,  mount 
higher 

Till  'bove  death's  change,  above  life's  petty 
smart, 

I  see  the  Summer  of  my  soul's  desire. 


202      3n  a  Portuguese  harden 


n 


Thou  hast  unveiled  thy  face,  O  Summer  fair, 
And  lookest  with  thine  unfathomable  eyes 
On  land  and  sea,  as  if  thou  wouldst  baptize 
The   world  in   thine   own  joy;  thou   com'st,   and 

where 

Thy  glad  feet  press  a  thousand  flowers  prepare 
To  hail  thy  presence  in  resplendent  dyes, 
And   when   thou   whisperest,    answering   whispers 

rise, 

As  those  breathed  by  the  pine  trees  on  the  air : — 
Thou  art  an  incarnation  of  the  year, 
With  all  its  sweetness  in  thy  soul  expressed ; 
A  priestess   passionate,   a   rose-crowned  seer, 
A  white  Madonna  in  whose  virgin  breast, 
Beneath  its  calms,  ineffable,  appear 
Shadows  of  an  ineffable  unrest! 


Jn  a  pottugue0e  <$ar&en      203 


in 


The  butterflies  are  winging  to  and  fro, 
And  clover  blossoms,  purple  flaunting,  swing 
And    the    wild   blackberry    vines,    their   perfumes 

fling 

On  the  warm  winds  that  kiss  them  as  they  blow. 
Upon  the  turquoise  heavens  the  light  clouds  go, 
Illusive  sailing  eastward,  as  to  bring 
News  from  the  sunrise,  where  the  orioles  sing, 
Caught  in  its  meshes,  to  their  mates  below ; 
The  grasses  glisten   and  the  bees,  elate, 
Scale  the  sun's  dazzling  ladders,  side  by  side, 
And  languid  winging  with  their  honeyed  freight 
In  the  full-breasted  thistles  seek  to  hide; 
And  the  wild  roses,  color  brimmed,  translate 
What  radiant  visions  in  June's  soul  abide. 


204      3n  a  Portuguese  <2>arDen 


IV 


Gay,  plumaged  bird  that  slender  dartest  by 
From  the  azaleas,  with  thy  tiny  power. 
Shaking  the  dewdrops   in   a  perfumed  shower, 
We  know  by  thee  the  Summer's  heart  beats  high. 
Thou  turnest  from  the  honeysuckles  nigh 
To  hover  o'er  a  gorgeous  trumpet  flower, 
And  rivaling,  flashest  forth  thy  bosom's  dower, 
Poised  on  its  brim,  like  a  winged  ecstasy ; 
Through  golden  notes,   like   sundust,  in   the  air, 
Where  iridescent  insects  drone  at  noon, 
Eager  thou  plungest  as  their  light  to  share, 
Listening  the  mystic  measures  they  intune, 
Half  bird,  half  flower,  flame  winged  thou  throb- 
best  there, 
The  passionate  embodiment  of  June. 


Kit  a  Portuguese  <5artien       205 


Not  in  great,  swollen  drops  that  flood  the  ways, 
Wrung  from  the  heavens'  ungovernable  woe, 
Thou  fall'st,  O  rain,  but  with  a  tender  flow 
As  from  o'erwhelming  rapture  of  its  days 
Thou  wouldst  ease  June's   full  heart ;  the  grass 

obeys 

Thy  gentle  touch  and  murmurs  soft  and  low 
Its  sweet  responses,  that  divinely  go 
From  rhythmic  preludes  into  rhythmic  lays ; 
The  wet-winged  birds  are  lingering  near  to  bear 
Thy  music's  pathos  into  some  new  tune, 
And  breathe  it  out  in  snatches  on  the  air, 
So  to  transfix  it  lest  thou  go  too  soon ; 
And  to  the  rose  thou  call'st,  unfolding  fair, 
"Quaff,  quaff  insatiate,  for  thou  quaffest  June" 
From  out  the  purple  blackness  of  the  sky 
There  sprang  a  writhing  scorpion  of  flame, 
And  rolling  o'er  the  darkened  hilltops  came 
A  sound,  as  if  the  angry  gods  on  high 
Were  driving  madly  in  their  chariots  by, 
The  uttermost  regions  of  the  heavens  to  claim ; 
And  all  things  winging,  bees  and  birds  the  same, 
Sank  into  silence  as  if  death  were  nigh ; 
And    then,    in    sheeted    streams    the     rain     broke 

through, 

And  flowers  were  torn,  and  desolation  spread, 
And    chasms    yawned,    where    forest    pine    trees 

grew, 


206      3n  a  Portuguese 


And  the  bright  rose  of  yesterday  was  dead; 
But  while  I  wept  the  sun  held  court  anew, 
And  it  was  like  the  JEgean  Sea  o'erhead. 

When  the  day  broke  there  was  no  trace  of  sun, 
A  chill,  pale,  clinging  vapor  hid  the  skies 
And  the  rain  fell  like  tears  from  hopeless  eyes, 
As  if  accepting  that  Earth's  joys  were  done; 
The  flowers  in  apathy  could  not  be  won 
To  lift  their  heads  and  flaunt  their  flaming  dyes, 
And  o'er  the  aspens,  in  their  leaden  guise 
No  protests  seemed  from  leaf  to  leaf  to  run  ; 
Not  once  the  clouds  grew  lighter  in  the  west  ; 
Not  once  the  vapor  could  its  hold  forget, 
The  listless  rain,  the  listless  air  oppressed, 
Heavy  as  an  insoluble  regret, 

And   so   the  day  went  mourning  forth,  in  quest 
Of  that  June  sun  unrisen  and  unset. 


3(n  a  Portuguese  Parpen       207 

JULY 
i 

SUNRISE 

THE  great  imperious  sun  breaks  through  the  sky 

And  burns  a  pathway  as  it  climbs  up  higher, 

And  on  the  tranced  sea  leaves  a  bridge  of  fire, 

And  dyes  the  thrushes  scarlet  as  they  fly. 

The  half-waked  bees  through  the  hot  air  go  by, 

Too  languid  the  tall  lilies  to  aspire, 

And  to  the  lowly  large-leaved  weeds  retire, 

And  motionless  beneath  their  shadows  lie. 

The  tarnished  hollyhocks  more  wrinkled  show, 

And  pansies,  ailing,  to  the  earth  complain, 

And  e'en  nasturtiums  that  dare  to  blow 

In  the  sun's  dominant  passion  droop  again, 

And  thou  interpretest,  July,  the  woe 

Of  dreamers,  whose  divinest  dreams  are  vain. 


208      jn  a  Portuguese  harden 

ii 

NOON 

The  blazing  sky  is  with  blue  fires  aleap, 

And  the  fierce  sun  sends  down  its  fiercest  heat 

Until  the  valleys  'neath  it  seem  to  beat, 

And  even  the  burning  south  winds  fall  asleep. 

The  squirrels  hide  in  forests  dim  and  deep, 

And  from  the  sheep  fields  comes  no  young  lambs' 

bleat ; 

And  wild  birds  wont  to  sail  on  pinions  fleet, 
Soft  palpitating  in  their  hot  nests  keep 
On  brinks  of  brooks  wherein  no  waters  flow. 
The  meek-eyed  cattle  pant  beneath  the  trees, 
And  tawny  butterflies  are  drifting  slow, 
Searching  the  transfixed   sunshine   for  a  breeze ; 
And  flowers  grow  faint,  and  the  parched  grasses 

know 
Naught  can  July's  insatiate  soul  appease. 


3n  a  Portugue0e  Garden       209 
in 

SUNSET 

The  scarlet  sunbeams  slumber  on  the  grass, 

And  in  the  dying  light  the  mountains  shine, 

And  solemn  pines  chant,  whispering  line  by  line 

The  music  of  an  immemorial  mass. 

The  birds  that  erewhile  sang  to  skies  of  brass, 

Sink  noiseless  to  their  nests,  and  make  no  sign 

With  their  soft  throats  to  break  the  hush  divine, 

Nor  even  stir  the  corn  silk  as  they  pass. 

The  sinking  sun  swims  in  a  blood  red  glow, 

But  soon,  o'er  brazen  splendor  of  the  sky 

A  gloom  of  tender  violet  will  grow, 

And  fireflies  through  the  dropping  darkness  fly, 

And  'neath  the  stars  baptismal  dews  will  flow, 

And  though  wilt  be  transfigured,  O  July. 


210      3n  a  Portuguese  harden 

IV 

AT  THE  CAPE  IN  JULY 

Up   through   the   new   mown   grass   earth's   vivid 

heat 

Sails  palpable,  at  the  wind's  lightest  will, 
And  o'er  the  meadows,  yellow  lilies  thrill, 
Scatters  the  mingled  perfumes,  wild  and  sweet, 
Along  the  edges  of  the  swaying  wheat 
Noisy    cicadas,    dizzy-noted,   trill ; 
And  in  the  distance,  calling  loud  and  shrill, 
Crows,  sable  pinioned,  through  the  ether  beat. 
The  golden  disks  of  laurel  light  the  ways, 
And  clustering  stars  of  alders  shining  rise, 
The  fire-souled  sun  sets  the  whole  sky  ablaze, 
And  the  great  sapphire  flame  that  'cross  it  flies 
Drops    to    where,    stretched    Titanic    'neath    its 

rays, 
The  sea,  scarce  breathing,  in  a  deep  swoon  lies. 


3n  a  Portuguese  harden 

The  rosy  swamp  weeds  tremble  in  the  air 
And  butterflies  drift  languidly  around, 
And  thin-vined  morning  glories  trail  the  ground 
Tangled  in  clinging  vines  that  hold  them  there ; 
Long  slender  locust  blossoms,  pale  and  fair, 
Hang    from    the    trees,    too    faintly    stirred,    for 

sound, 
And    flowers,    in    myriads,     orange     fringed    and 

crowned. 

Allegiance  to  midsummer's  heat  declare; 
The  bees  intone  their  murmurings  o'er  and  o'er 
And  petal  canopied,  half  hidden  lie; 
Into  the  sky's  blue,  bluer  fathoms  pour; 
And  drowsing  'neath  its  splendor,  dreams  July ; 
The  sea  is  still  a-swoon,  but  kissing  shore, 
Its  sapphire  swell  has  slipt  to  sapphire  sigh. 


3n  a  Iportiigue0e 


I  turn  from  all  the  flowers  unto  the  sea, 

Whose  bosom  holds  rose  blushing  coral  halls  : 

And  hear,  unmuffled  by  their  viewless  walls, 

The  boundless  music  of  Infinity  ; 

A  shell  lies  in  my  hand  —  because  no  key 

Can  open  way  to  the  eternal  mystery 

Of   its    strange    murmur,   though    the    sound    en 

thralls, 

It  breaks  my  heart,  like  a  far  voice  that  calls. 
From  a  great  universe  unknown  to  me  — 
Unfathomable,  it  lies  glittering  there, 
And  all  the  blazing  light  dropt  from  the  sky 
Upon  its  Titan  breast  I  seem  to  share  — 
Facing  sublimity  I  half  defy 

Death  and  despair  to-day,  and  fain  would  wear 
Wings,  wings,  into  the  limitless  to  fly. 


a  Pottugue0e 


AUGUST 


O  AUGUST  sun,  from  thine  enmuffling  haze 
Shake  thyself  free,  and  fling  off  fold  on  fold, 
And  stay  the  thick-meshed  vapors,  striking  bold 
With  all  the  sovereignty  of  all  thy  rays, 
For  soon,  too  soon,  the  yarrow  by  the  ways 
Its  virgin  blushes  will  forget  to  hold, 
Nor  canst  thou  be  too  prodigal  of  gold, 
Holding  thy  court  in  these  bewildering  days. 
Hasten  full  resplendor  of  thy  heart  to 

bare, 

And  the  elusive  thistle-down  relight, 
That  it  may  no  more  ghostly  haunt  the  air, 
Lest  summer  noiseless  winging  steal  from  sight, 
While  silver-shackled,  thou  art  hidden  there 
And  come  no  more,  lost  in  aerial  flight. 


a  Portuguese  <£>ar&en 


ii 


Stay  yet  awhile,  O  gentle  August,  stay ; 
Ye  bear  away  the  summer's   face  too  soon, 
Hush  the  wild  locusts  in  the  fields  at  noon, 
That  on  their  tiny  flutes  but  farewells  play, 
And  hide  more  niggardly  thy  Sun's   array, 

— Remembering  the  golden  light  of  June, 
And  veil  thy  skies,  and  shroud  thy  scarlet  moon 
Lest  they  should  light  thee  to  thy  funeral  day ; — 

— Poor  August,  blotting  out,  with  tears  unshed. 
The  world  of  flowers  and  the  resplendent  sea ; 
The  golden  rod  bends  down  its  filmy  head 
Like  some  sad  mourner  listening  Death's  decree, 
And  thine  own  purple  asters  pale  with  dread, 
Knowing  they  weep  the  Summer,  weep  with  thee. 


<S5arDen 


in 


Through  sultry  mornings  shines  the  yellow  sun, 
Thick    veiled    with   mists,    and    shimmering   here 

and  there 

Sail  phantom  butterflies  adown  the  air 
To  phantom  flowers ;  the  crickets  have  begun 
And  noisy  locusts  sharp  staccatos  run 
Through   fervid   noons.     The   wild  bees   murmur 

low, 

Searching  the  rose  in  vain,  and  onward  go, 
By   some   new   wayside    sweetness    constant   won ; 
Now,  the  blue  triumphs,  and  from  out  the  haze 
Mysterious   and  divine   come   forth  the  hills, 
Showing  distinct  their  lofty  wooded  ways, 
And  the  whole  sky  with  its  lost  azure  thrills ; 
August  smiles  fair  and  yet — no  birds — no  lays — 
Only     'neath     blood-red    moons — the    whippoor- 

wills. 


216      3n  a  Portuguese  <£>arDen 


IV 


The    flame-winged   humming   birds    will    come   no 

more 

Through  the  sun-dusted  atmosphere  to  sweep, 
And  gorgeous  poppies  in  the  gardens  sleep 
Drugged  with  the  lethed  dews  their  bright  cups 

bore : 

The  pageant  of  the  summer  bloom  is  o'er, 
Save  that  a  few  belated  roses  keep 
Their    petels'    fragrance,    and  with   blushes    deep 
Throb,    glimmering    here    and    there    along    the 

shore ; 

O  golden-hearted  roses,  ye  remain 
Fairer  than  fairest  flowers  that  round  you  grow, 
Held  captives  by  the  waves'  superb  refrain, 
Wherein    some    June-harped     rapture,     soft    and 

low, 

Grown  sublimate,  ye  recognize  again, 
Part  of  the  sea's  aeolian  ebb  and  flow. 


a  Portuguese  (Dattien       217 


I  had  forgotten  the  splendor  of  the  sea 

Until  I  saw  it  stretching  at  my  feet, 

Ablaze  with  sapphire,  borne  there  by  the  heat, 

And  heard  it  murmuring  ceaselessly  to  me 

Tunes,  silver-cadenced,  fluted  in  the  key 

Known  but  to  south  winds ;  so  enthralling  sweet 

That  all  the  air  around  me  seemed  to  beat 

With  snatches  of  aerial  melody ; 

And  as  the  sun  looked  down,  the  noon  at  crest, 

Swimming  in  light,  a  glory  on  its  face, 

While  the  long  waves  seemed  fainting  into  rest, 

I  saw,  as  the  sea  melted  into  space, 

With  the  whole  heavens  asleep  upon  its  breast, 

Two  dazzling  worlds,  in  a  divine  embrace. 


218      3n  a  Portuguese  (SarDett 


VI 


Upon  the  green  waves  dashing  by,  to-day, 
That  near  and  far  are  shining  glorified, 
Borne  out  by  passion  of  the  wind  and  tide, 
A  ship  is  sailing  through  the  radiant  spray 
That  as  afar  its  sails  in  sunlight  play 
Seems  for  a  moment  on  the  heavens  to  ride, 
Then  downward  drops  from  view,  and  side  by  side 
With  fleecy   clouds,  pearl-blazoned,   drifts   away. 
The  ship  drifts  by — I  hear  thy  soul,  O  sea, 
Revealing  what  forever  thou  hast  known, 
That  this  reverberating  mystery, 
Rolling  sublimely  through  thine  undertone, 
Thundering,  imploring,  rapturing  to  me, 
By  breath  of  the  Magnificent,  is  blown. 


VII 


The  sun  slips,  slowly  drowning,  out  of  sight, 
And  o'er  the  sea  a  flood  of  scarlet  streams, 
Poured  from  the  struggle  of  its  dying  beams, 
While  overhead,  toward  a  rocky  height, 
A  seagull,  winging  through  the  vivid  light, 
Upon  a  distant  haze  of  violet  gleams 
That,  stretching  out  along  the  horizon,  seems 
Like  flowering  of  twilight,  ere  its  flight. 
The  fiery  skies  melt  into  ashen  blue; 
From  off  the  burning  waves  the  glory  dies ; 
'Bove  the  drowned  sun  a  pale  star  pricks  to  view, 
The  flowering  twilight  fades,  the  Ocean  sighs, 
And  all  at  once  the  full  moon  silvers  through, 
And  Night  lies  glittering  with  infinities. 


220      Un  a  Portuguese  Garden 

VIII 

Great  yellow  suns  that  burn  through  yellow  haze 
And  shine  upon  the  grasses  filmed  with  white, 
Through  the  tear-woven  webs  ye  send  your  light 
And  set  the  trailing  gossamer  ablaze. 
Ye  gild  the  foxglove  with  your  glittering  rays, 
And  rouse  the  wild  bees  from  their  languid  flight 
Until  they  seek  to  scale  your  dizzy  height, 
Murmuring  divinely  to  the  dazzling  days ! 
Shine  on,  for  undulating  butterflies 
The  purple  of  the  clematis  still  hail, 
Unconscious  that  with  locusts'  sharp-voiced  cries 
The  gorgeous  color  of  the  flowers  will  pale ; 
Shine  on,  that  reckless  'neath  the  summer's  eyes 
The  butterflies,  unconscious  still  may  sail. 


3n  a  iportuguejse  aatDen      221 


IX 


Oh,  snow-white  honeysuckles  hush,  ye  blow 
Upon  your  million  trumpets  a  wild  tune, 
Sadder  than  that  the  roses  breathed  to  June ; 
And  out  beyond  the  sands  where  sea  pinks  grow 
The  ocean  listens.     Hush,  for  ah !  ye  know 
The  blushing  spirea  stabs  the  August  noon, 
And   mullein   tapers   flare  beneath  its   moon ; 
Or  if  ye  needs  must  trumpet,  trumpet  low ; 
I  hear  insistent,  'bove  the  ocean's  call, 
'Bove  songs  of  birds  that  linger  on  their  way, 
The  notes  that  mystically  rise  and  fall, 
Borne  from  the  illusive  chorus  ye  essay, 
And  dream,  in  soft  lament,  as  o'er  a  pall — 
It  is  the  summer's  "dead  march"  that  ye  play. 


a  Pottugue0e  Garden 


x 

AN  AUGUST  LOVE  SONG 

Dear  heart,  the  summer  rose  has  long  since  died  ; 
And   swept  like   shadowy   phantoms   through  the 

air. 

The    swallows    have    sought    summer    otherwhere, 
And  thrushes'  songs  are  stayed  ;  but  in  a  tide 
From  out  the  solitudes  wherein  they  glide 
Come  plaints  of  whippoorwills.     O  sweet,  O  fair, 
Couldst   not    from    god's,   Demeter's     power     en 

snare, 

And  stay  Time's  course  and  bid  the  summer  bide? 
Nay,  have  no  fear,  it  cannot  wholly  go  ; 
Though    swallows    flock    and     fly  —  for    lingering 

yet 

The  soul  of  summer  still  is  ours,  who  know 
Despite  the  sad-voiced  whippoorwills'  regret, 
Despite  the  vanished  rose  and  singing,  lo  ! 
It  will  be  mid  the  eternal  summers  set. 


3n  a  Portuguese  aarDen       223 

XI 

AT  THE  CAPE   IN   AUGUST 

The  glad  high  noon  of  summer  has  gone  by, 

And  thou  hast  come,  pale  August,  lit  with  glow 

Of  the  white  bloom   adrift  of  elderblow 

And  moon-rayed  thistle  disks,  that  moons  outvie ; 

The   orioles   still   through   golden   sunshine   fly 

But — sing  to  thee  no  more,  and  mad,  wild  flow, 

That  set  the  sea  to  bugling,  has  ebbed  low 

To  deep-drawn  breath  of  a  transcendent  sigh ; 

With  blushes  of  the  pinks  the  wet  sands  thrill 

And  the  swamp  honeysuckles,  line  on  line 

From  out  their  slender  cups  the  night  dews  spill ; 

And  thou  art  steeped  in  beauty  so  divine, 

So  all  entrancing,  that  had  I  my  will 

Thou  shouldst  drink  deep  of  some  immortal  wine. 


3n  a  Ipottugue0e  Garden 

Sweet,  captive  day,  haste,  and  thy  fetters  break ; 
The  silken  meshes  that  entangle  thee 
Are  woven  so  thin,  that  I  can  almost  see 
The  golden  sun  its  glittering  tresses  shake 
Adown  the  eastern  sky,  but  strong  winds  take 
Thy  gossamer  shroud,  and  at  the  sea's  decree 
Wind  it  more  closely  lest  thou  struggle  free ; 
Haste!  wilt  as  prisoner  let  the  noon  o'ertake? 
Not  so,  not  so — thou  hast  escaped — behold, 
Thou  hast  usurped  the  blue,  the  heavens  ridden 

o'er, 

Outstripped   the   East  wind   and   the   clouds   un 
rolled, 
Wrung   from   the   salt-breathed   sea    the    film   it 

wore, 

Gauged  the  sun's  eminence,  proven  its  gold 
And  given  to  August  one  divine  day  more. 


3n  a  Portuguese  <£>arDen       225 

Caverned  in  blue,  thou  boldest  in  thy  breast 
Creation's  mysteries,  as  thou  liest  there, 
O  tranquil  sea,  and  borne  upon  the  air 
Comes  murmurous  music,  as  if  waked  from  rest 
The  ageless  sirens  into  singing  prest 
Were,  of  the  splendor  of  thy  smile  aware ; 
Nay,  I  can  almost  see  their  streaming  hair 
Caught  in  the  sunshine,  of  its  sight,  in  quest. 
Like  a  great  sapphire,  in  the  horizon  set 
Thou  seemest,  by  the  Eternal  worn,  as  seal ; 
And  standing  on  the  shore,  mine  eyes  are  wet, 
Not  with  thy  spray,  but  with  my  soul's  appeal 
That  thou  who  hast  worn  continents,  with  fret, 
Wilt  secret  of  this  marvelous  calm  reveal. 


a  Iportiigue0e 


SEPTEMBER 


SEPTEMBER 

IN  spring  I  said:     "For  thee,  O  fair,  more  fair 

Than  all  the  other  seasons,  lit  with  shine 

Of  the  baptismal  lilies,  more  divine 

Than  even  the  summer,  let  my  soul  prepare ; 

And  I  went  forth  and  quaffed  the  mystic  air 

And   felt  the  spring  run   through  my  veins   like 

wine, 

Then  summer  came ;  and  summer  so  was  mine 
That  all  I  dreamed,  I  felt  its  breath  declare : 
Now,  golden-veiled  usurper  though  thou  art, 
Matchless  September,  unto  thee  I  turn 
And  measure  every  beat  of  thy  full  heart — 
Taught  by  the  season's  dead — and  toward  thee 

yearn, 

Whose  blood  is  blood  of  three,  as  toward  a  part 
Of  earth's  great  song  whose  notes  I  fain  would 

learn. 


a  Pottiiue0e  <£>ar&en 


ii 

SEPTEMBER  SUN  FLOWERS 

Great  gaudy  clocks  that  tell  the  summer's  o'er, 
Blazoning   the   knowledge    forth,   we    fain    would 

shun  ; 

Eastward  ye  turn,  as  challenging  the  sun, 
Whose  golden  fires   insatiate  ye  implore: 
The  slender  humming  birds  dart  by  no  more; 
And  filmy,  fleecy  webs,  by  night  dews  spun, 
As  if  to  veil  your  faces,  one  by  one 
Ye  fling  aside  and  flaunt  out  as  before. 
Beneath  the  western  breezes  like  a  tide 
Ye  proudly  glittering  sway,  as  thus  to  show 
New  claim  to  homage,  now  the  rose  has  died  ; 
But  high  above  you,  bold  cicadas  blow 
Their  sharp,  shrill  warnings,  as  to  trumpet  wide 
The  brazen  Autumn  lurks  beneath  your  glow. 


228      Jn  a  Portuguese  Garden 

in 

AUTUMN* 

The  voice  of  June  still  haunts  the  silver  streams, 
And  yet,  O  wanton  Autumn,  June  is  dead, 
Nor  all  thy  wiles  can  change  the  sumach's  red 
Into  the  glory  of  the  sweetbrier's  gleams ; 
But  subtle  ecstasy  of  Summer  seems 
As  if  it  lingered  in  the  skies  o'erhead, 
The  while  thou  mock'st  at  sign  of  swallows  fled, 
And  smil'st,  though  hushed  the  thrushes'   sunset 

dreams. — 

To  tuneless  monotones  thou  mak'st  consent^ — 
And  to  the  spectral  butterflies  that  go, 
As  if  with  searching  for  the  lilies  spent, 
Sighing  above  the  asters  zoned  with  woe, 
Yet,    haughty-souled,    thou    wear'st    without    la 
ment, 

The    funeral    flowers     that    thine    own    grave   be- 
strow. 


IV 


Divine  September,  wert  not  so  divine, 

I  should  reproach  thee  that  thou  dar'st  to  reign 

Where    summer     once   held     place;   but    o'er    the 

plain, 

That  stretches   outward  to   the  horizon  line, 
Like  endless  seas  whose  billows  dazzling  shine, 
I  see  the  sun-anointed  fields  of  grain, 
And  breathe,  upon  the  warm  air  borne  again, 
The  subtle  perfumes  of  the  fir  and  pine. — 
Thou  art  so  like  the  summer,  thou  couldst  cheat 
The  earth  itself,  the  likeness  to  mistake, 
For  fanning  by  the  yellow  plumes  of  wheat 
And  gorgeous  hovering  o'er  the  illumined  brake 
The  velvet  butterflies  in  drowse  of  heat 
Are  lingering,  not  for  thee,  but  summer's  sake. 


230      3n  a  Portuguese  Garden 


The  vagrant  winds  are  blowing  o'er  the  plain, 

Warm  as  in  summer ;  and  the  thick  fogs  lift 

From  off  the  morning's  face,  and  outward  drift 

In  sheeny  billows  o'er  the  fields  of  grain. 

The  fireweed  and  chickory  bloom  again, 

And    golden    sunbeams    that    through   pine   trees 

sift 

Seem  writing  as  they  palpitate  and  shift, 
Illumined  notes  of  a  divine  refrain. — 
The  skies,  more  azure  even  than  in  June, 
Are  quick  with  splendor,   and  night   after  night 
From  the  dead  heart  of  August  comes  the  moon, 
Imperial  mourner,  with  its   tragic  light, 
The  legacy  of  summer  that,  too  soon, 
With  all  this  pageantry  will  fade  from  sight. 


VI 


The  falling  hemlock-needles  pierce  the  haze 
And    strike    the    ferns    that    still   unshrunk'n    re 
main  ; 

And  the  tall  sunflowers  hold  aloft  again 
Their    streaming    banners    through    the    amber 

days; 

The  thistles'  cobweb'd  stars  with  silvery  rays 
Along  the  waysides   hold   their   glittering  reign ; 
And  signaling  heat,  in  a  discordant  strain, 
A  sun-lured  locust,  piping  shrilly,  plays ; 
Late  dandelions  deck  the  mountain  side, 
And  the  blue  asters  in  the  shadows  lie ; 
But  from  the  birds  that  through  the  forests  glide 
There  comes  no  sound  of  singing  as  they  fly, 
Only  through  waves  of  silence  swept  aside 
A  breath  of  music  like  a  long-drawn  sigh. 


3n  a  Portuguese  harden 


VII 


Summer  that  lingerest  as  beneath  a  spell, 
Tranced  in  the  cloudless  azure  of  the  skies, 
The  first  fleet  swallow  that  outgoing  flies 
Writes  on  the  air  it  wings  through  thy  farewell ; 
Thou  canst  not  with  thy  sweetest  wiles  dispel, 
Or  tender  pathos  of  thy  sun's  disguise, 
Nor  canst  with  all  thy  loveliness  surprise 
The  June  birds  back,  their  ecstasies  to  tell — 
Yet    why,    transcendent    Summer,    shouldst    thou 

go? 

The  gauzy  morning-glories  linger  still ; 
The  gold  nasturtiums,  golden-hearted,  blow ; 
The  blood-red   poppies  burn  upon  the  hill; 
Thou,  through  whose  veins  the  unslackened  cur 
rents  flow, 
Why  should  Death  claim  thee  at  his  sullen  will? 


3n  a  Portuguese  <$arDett      233 

VIII 

Nature  is  but  the  Eternal's  countersign, 
Inexorably  given — and  like  a  dream 
Thou  wentest  with  thy  yellow  hair  astream 
Floating  resplendent  past  the  sunset  line ; 
And  flowers  thou  bor'st  that  I  had  held  as  mine, 
Left  me  bereaved  anew;  yet  so  supreme 
Rapture  their  beauty  gave,  it  left  a  gleam 
To  which  I  constant  turn,  as  to  a  shrine — 
Nor  radiant  as  thou  wert  shall  I  repine, 
Others  as  radiant  have  been  borne  along, 
In  which  I  learned,  silent  'neath  bloom  and  shine, 
Silence  may  be  diviner  even  than  song; 
And  am  content,  who  quaffed  thy  goldenest  wine, 
That  matchless,  thou  shouldst  join  that  match 
less  throng. 


a  Portugue0e  <25ar&en 


IX 


Summer,  dear  Summer,  with  thine  airy  grace 
And  soft  enchantments,  though  we  thought  thee 

flown, 

Thou  hast  come  back  on  sunlit  pinions,  blown 
By  southern  breezes  to  thine  olden  place ; 
Thou  holdst  the  mist-crowned  hills  in  thine  em 
brace, 

With  a  majestic  passion  all  thine  own, 
Till  on  thy  bosom,  amber  burnished  grown 
The  dazzling  necklace  worn  in  June  we  trace. — 
Oh,  Summer,  unforgotten  and  divine, 
In  tender  glory  of  these  passing  days 
We  see  thine  azure  eyes  pathetic  shine 
Like    those    of    one    who    journeying    homeward, 

stays 

Waiting  amid  the  silence  for  some  sign 
Of  the  old  music,  that  made  glad  the  ways. 


3fn  a  Portuguese  <£arDen 
x 

FAREWELL  TO  SUMMER 


Go,  Summer,  in  thy  matchless  beauty,  go. 

Thou  wouldst  be  desolate  if  thou  shouldst  stay, 

For  birds  that  sang  to  thee,  have  flown  away, 

And  roses  on  thy  breast  died  long  ago. 

Nor  can  the  sunflowers,  with  their  gaudy  glow, 

Tempt  to  remain,  for  howso  in  array 

They  supplicate,  as  toward  the  sun  they  sway, 

That    they    will    make    thy    funeral    train,    they 

know.  — 

No  more,  with  thine  elysian  message  sent, 
Will  thy  melodious  footsteps  wander  by  ; 
And  ocean,  with  its  near  waves,  makes  lament, 
And  winds  through  pallid  bloom  of  alders  sigh, 
Thou  art  so  beautiful  —  go,  be  content 
Who  didst  bear  roses,  like  the  rose  to  die. 


236      Kn  a  Portuguese  harden 

XI 

ON  THE  CLIFF 

It  is  the  time  when  hollyhocks  bloom,  that  hold 
Their   gorgeous   cups   outstretched  to   catch   the 

dew; 

And  velvet  hearts  of  the  nasturtiums  woo 
The  splendid  topaz  fires  of  suns  untold ; 
When  by  the  river,  calm  and  cool,  unfold 
The  lilies  one  by  one,  and  bees  pursue 
The  primrose  perfumes,  flaunting  forth  to  view, 
In  dazzle  of  the  noons,  their  chains  of  gold — 
The  pale  pink  blossoms  of  the  locusts  lie 
Unblown  by  winds  as  carven  in  the  air, 
And  a  faint  film  of  heat  o'erspreads  the  sky 
As  if  the  soul  of  August  hovered  there ; 
And  in  a  sapphire  drowse  the  ocean  nigh 
Hushes  itself  to   slumber  unaware. 


3n  a  Portuguese  harden       237 

XII 

I  watched  the  amber  sun  sink  noiselessly, 

And  drown  in  amber  billows  of  the  west ; 

And  the  great  crescent  moon  sail  forth  in  quest 

Of  a  new  height  to  sentinel  the  sea. 

From  out  its  silver  heart  the  light  broke  free 

And    dropped    in    splendor    on    its    tide-rocked 

breast, 

And  every  rose  upon  the  cliff's  broad  crest 
Grew  into  bridal  white,  at  its  decree — 
Across  the  shore-kissed  waves  its  soft  beams  fell, 
And,  as  from  soul  of  a  great  violin  swept, 
An  agony  of  music  seemed  to  swell 
As  if  the  sea,  like  a  blanched  mourner,  kept 
Divinely  murmuring  a  divine  farewell 
Above  the  cave  where  the  dead  Triton  slept. 


238      Jn  a  Pottugue0e 


And  lo,  unbidden,  to  the  September  days 

Thou  hast  bequeathed  thine  own  exceeding  glow 

Silvering  the  white-shelled  shore ;  and  winds  that 

blow 

And  fan  the  flame-torched  cliffland  into  blaze : 
Over  the  heavens  a  silken  tissued  haze 
Wrapt  round  the  sun,  as  if,  untangling  slow, 
Is  torn  to  fleeces  that  upsailing  go, 
And  vanish  in  the  splendor  of  its  rays — 
Myriads  of  wayside  flowers  spring  and  here  and 

there, 

Pilfering  a  lingering  rose,  a  stealthy  bee 
And  locusts  trumpeting  throughout  the  air 
Approach  of  noon,  and  the  great  turquoise  sea 
That  murmuring  on  its  way  in  soft  despair 
Breaks  to  lamenting  as  for  thee — for  thee. 


Jn  a  Ipottuguc0e  ©atDen       239 

XIV 

Daily  the  hidden  unforgetting  morn, 

Has  flung  from  East  to  West  a  silver  haze ; 

Daily  the  sun  with  its  defiant  rays 

Into  a  thousand  threads  Her  film  has  torn ; 

And  in  the  triumph  of  its  golden  scorn 

September  with  full  ecstasy  ablaze 

Has  daily  spilled  upon  the  flower-lit  ways 

Rapture  transcendent,  as  if  heavenly  born. — - 

Oh,  matchless  one,  how  can  I  else  but  sigh, 

Knowing  that  with  thy  beauty,  still  agleam, 

Thou  wilt  be  roused,  nor  can  the  call  deny, 

From  the  divineness  of  thy  perfect  dream ; 

And  I  shall  see  thee  in  some  sunset  sky, 

Drift  silent  outward  on  its  shining  stream. 


240      3n  a  Portuguese  harden 


xv 


White  moon  onlooking  as  the  sun  sank  low 

And  weltering  in  its  own  effulgence,  died 

Like  an  evangel  to  the  light  allied 

Climbing  the  opal  East  I  saw  thee  go : 

Beneath,  silvering  the  ocean  in  its  flow 

I  saw  thy  radiance  tangled  in  the  tide 

On  its  immeasurable  bosom  ride 

And  mingle  with  the  sun's  last  burning  glow. — 

Divine  pale  moon !     I,  plunged,  in  Life's   regret 

Confronted  thee,  who  hadst  no  pang  to  bear, 

Who  unlamenting  saw  the  great  sun  set, 

And  still  climbed  on,  serene,  and  calm,  and  fair, 

And   wondered   when    defeat   thou    shouldst   have 

met 

If  even,  heaven-held,  thou  wouldst  not  learn  de 
spair. 


3n  a  Portuguese  (SacDett 


XVI 

A  SEPTEMBER  IDYL 

I  looked  up  to  the  dominant  heavens,  and  saw 
From  the  sun's  smoldering  fire;  an  amber  smoke 
That  lit  the  swarthy  purple  of  the  East 
And  sent  the  clustering  clouds  to  burnished  gold, 
Like  petals  of  a  new-blown  daffodil: 
And  I  was  sent  to  silent  worshiping, 
While  from  the  naked  bosom  of  the  sea 
Came  murmurous  music  that  the  morning's  breath 
Was  disentangling  from  the  pulsing  waves 
And  that,  aerial  wafted,  rose  and  fell, 
Filling  the  yellow  silence  like  a  flame, 
Until  with  fainting  of  the  tide,  it  swooned 
And  then,  in  pallor  of  the  sunrise  died  ; 
And  where  no  longer  bloomed  the  daffodil 
Bloomed  the  white  rose  of  day. 

Again  I  looked  up  to  the  dominant  heavens 

And  saw  an  arch  magnificently  blue, 

Brooding  majestic  o'er  the  Universe, 

That  stretched  out,  so  immeasurably  fair    . 

It  seemed  for  footstool  of  Jehovah  fit  : 

So  fair,  the  splendor  that  its  bosom  hid 

Seemed  blazing  through  —  so  fair  that  once  again 

I  fell  to  worshiping,  while  down  the  noon, 

Bright  as  if  stars  had  found  their  way  to  wings, 

Came  the  September,  sun-winged,  butterflies 


3n  a  Portuguese 


Drifting   to    shrunken   flowers  :  —  There    was     no 

sound 

But  the  faint  flutter  of  a  bird  or  leaf 
To  break  the  spell,  and  even  the  sea  itself, 
That  lay  like  a  great  crystal  in  the  light, 
Sent  forth  no  voice,  but  noiseless  kissed  the  sky  :  — 
The  sky  of  which  my  soul  more  conscious  grew, 
Accepting  it   as  first  and  last  and  whole  — 
That  compassed  all  and  held  the  key  to  all 
Until  I  almost  felt  there  was  no  world  — 
Nothing  but  its  sublime  supremacy, 
Nothing  but  bared  heart  of  Infinity  : 
And  I  was  lifted  up,  like  one  who  dreamed, 
To  something  that  I  could  not  understand, 
Something  invisible,  that  held  me  tranced, 
That  in  the  visible  was  palpitant  ; 
Till  while  still  tranced,  behold  I   came  to  know 
What  I  was  worshiping  was  not  the  sky 
But  the  Ineffable. 


Jn  a  Portuguese  ®atEen       243 

OCTOBER 

I 

FROM    A    MILTON    WINDOW    IN    OCTOBER 

THE  sumachs  burn  their  funeral  pyres,  to-day, 
Above  the  graves,  where  unforgotten  sleep 
The  Summer  lilies  Summer  could  not  keep 
And  sky-kissed  hyacinths  beloved  of  May ; 
And  the  closed  gentians  blooming  by  the  way, 
Hidden  in  sylvan  shadows  dim  and  deep, 
With  dewy  eyes  for  Autumn's  trickeries  weep, 
Blazoning  its  gaudy  tints  to  hide  decay — 
The   glittering  ripples   chase  the   glittering  rills 
And  from  its  amber  heights,  adown  the  air, 
The  reckless  sun  its  reckless  splendor  spills 
As  if  bold  usurer,  making  April  fair, 
It  had  kept  gold  of  all  its  daffodils 
In   Autumn's    spendthrift   rioting   to   share. 


244      3n  a  Portu0ue0e  (Stamen 

In  ecstasy  of  silence,  as  with  sight 
Of  its  own  plenitude,  stretched  east  and  west, 
The  earth  lies,  in  its  gorgeous  drapery  drest, 
Laden  with  fruitage,  palpitate  with  light. 
Even  the  bees  are  noiseless  in  their  flight, 
Drunken   with   honeyed  wine   from    wild    grapes 

pressed, 

And  azure  leaning,  in  a  swoon  of  rest, 
The  hills  are  outlined  on  the  azure  height ; 
Unstirred  by  any  breath  of  wind  that  blows 
The  clouds  like  snowy  doves,  soft  flocking  pass 
And    'gainst   the     brilliant     leaves     the     sunshine 

shows 

In  double  measure  as  it  lights  the  grass, 
And   aisle  on   aisle,  'neath   the   arched  tree-tops, 

glows 
Like  a  heaven-lit  cathedral  decked  for  mass. 


3n  a  Iportugue0e  ®arden       245 

Impetuous  river  that  flow'st  singing  by, 

Thy  foaming  waters  iridescent  shine 

As  if  where  dazzling  Summer  set  its  sign 

The  glory  lingered,  Autumn  to  defy; 

I  have  seen  lilies  on  thy  wave-crests  lie 

And  swallows  sail  above  thee,  line  on  line, 

And  white  moons  grow  to  fullness,  and  then  pine 

And   winter   snowflakes    whirling   round   thec   fly. 

Still  fair  as  in  the  past,  I  turn  mine  eyes 

Lured  past  the  hills  and  valley  lands,  to  thee 

Who  matchless  bearest  out,  the  matchless  skies 

Inviolate  on  thy  bosom,  to  the  sea, 

And  feel  again  the  eternal  charm  that  lies 

In  thine  eternal  rhythmed  minstrelsy. 


24.6      Kn  a  Iportuguege 


ii 

ONE  OCTOBER  DAY 

The  dazzling-hearted  sun  has  kissed  away 
The  filmy  mists  that  blushed  at  early  morn, 
And  a  faint  fragrance,  as  of  Summer  born, 
Sweeps  on  the  southwest  wind  across  the  bay. 
The  gorgeous  foliage,  as  to  cheat  the  day, 
Flames  in  the  gardens,  of  their  blossoms  shorn, 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  noon  is  worn 
A  silver  shadow,  like  the  moon  astray  ; 
O  beautiful  October,  radiant   crowned, 
Glittering  with  amber  lights  that  make  thee  fair, 
Above  thy  harvest  flutes,  there  comes  a  sound 
As  if  stark  Azrael,  hovering  in  the  air, 
Dropped    heavy    tears    upon    the    dew-drenched 

ground, 
Waiting  from  hence,  thy  golden  soul  to  bear. 


Jn  a  Portuguese  <$arHen       247 

And  oh,  what  matters  it  how  bright  the  sun 

Or  how  divinely  fair,  the  day  may  be? 

There  is  a  shadow  constantly,  I  see 

A  dark  eclipse,  as  if  the  day  were  done ; 

The  birds  have  drifted  southward,  one  by  one, 

And  the  unpitying  hills  look  down  on  me 

Lifting  their  veils  of  azure  mystery, 

Lit  by  the  sunset  fires,  I  fain  would  shun ; 

I  cannot  quaff,  I  am  so  poor  a  thing, 

Thy  beauty,  O  October,  as  of  old, 

Or  grow  again  intoxicate  with  Spring, 

Or  the  illusive  heart  of  Summer  hold, 

For  even  on  brightest  pageants  thou  canst  bring 

Of  flowers,  or  forests,  there  is  hint  of  mold. 


3(n  a  Portuguese 


in 

TWO  MOODS 

The  earth  once  more  has  grown  articulate, 

And  opening  petals  of  the  wild  flowers  bear 

Divinest  intimations  through  the  air 

Of  music  only  Springtime  can  translate  ; 

The  sky  down-laden  with  its  hyacinth  freight, 

Bends  yearning  o'er  the  hills,  and  leaning  there, 

Dreams  of  the  violets  that  shy  and  fair 

For  the  warm  April  sunshine  lie  in  wait  ; 

White  doves  with  dawn-flushed  bosoms  fluttering 

rise 

Marking  their  way  in  iridescent  line, 
And  yet,  with  all  thy  wiles,  I  recognize, 

0  wanton  Spring,  between  thy  heart  and  mine 
Such  an  impenetrable  shadow  lies, 

1  hail  thee  not,  who  once  hailed  thee  divine. 


a  Portuguese 


Haunt  me  no  longer,  Phantom  of  the  Past. 
Thou  com'st  to  me  to-day  in  shining  guise 
Of  sun-crowned  Spring,  that  with  thine  April 

eyes 
Bring'st    me    remembrance,    tears,    and    longings 

vast. 

I  bid  thee  go,  and  yet  I  hold  thee  fast, 
So  fair  thou  art,  for  flung  across  thy  skies 
Morn  after  morn,  a  banner  streaming  flies 
As  if  from  Heaven  a  signal  had  been  cast  ; 
Haunt    with     regrets    no    more,    O    flute-voiced 

Spring, 

But  as  with  message  from  the  East,  proclaim 
With   revelation   of  each  growing  thing 
Earth  has  beatitudes  Death's  power  to  shame  — 
Why    should   I    shrink   thy   presence,    who    canst 

bring 
From  out  their  graves  the  daffodils  to  flame? 


250      3n  a  l$ottugue$e 


IV 

TWO  OCTOBER  DAYS 

The   sun-drenched   flowers   are  glittering   on   thy 

breast, 

O  wonderful  October  !  and  upflare 
Like  lighted  torches  that  illumine  the  air, 
And  spread  their  blazing  gold-fires  east  and  west. 
The  skies  o'erwhelmed  with  blue  throb  manifest  : 
And  flocked  like  gulls  with  pinions  snowy  fair 
The    clouds    sail    outward    toward     the     horizon, 

where 

Hushed  on  the  deep  magnificence  they  rest  ; 
The  forests,  like  colossal  gardens,  shine, 
And  the  tall  sumachs,  vivid  blushing  sway, 
And  a  bewildered  bee,  half  drunken  with  wine, 
Drops  from  his  purple  cup,  and  steals  away  ; 
And  the  day  drifts,  resplendent  and  divine, 
Too  beautiful  to  go,  too  bright  to  stay. 


3n  a  Portuguese  (SterDen      251 

The  warm,  transparent  air  is  still  astir 

With  a  few  gauzy  butterflies,  that  sail 

Above  the  asters,  growing  purple  pale, 

And  the  low  azure  studded  juniper. 

The  grapes  are  covered  with  a  sunblown  blur, 

Clustering   with   nectar   brimmed,   on   vines    that 

trail, 

And  partridges  are  drumming  'cross  the  vale, 
Drowning  with  noisy  beats  their  pinions'  whir — 
The  tansy's  yellow  plumes  are  nodding  low, 
And  as  with  summer  drugged,  shrunken  and  old; 
Disheveled  dandelions  that  by  waysides  grow, 
Unsheath  again  their  flashing  blades  of  gold, 
And  borne  from  leaf  to  leaf  the  shadows  go 
Trembling,  as  prescient  of  some  grief  untold. 


252      3n  a  Portuguese  harden 

v 

AN  OCTOBER  IDYL 

I  looked  up  to-day  and  saw  in  the  heavens 

Through   the   floor   where   the   cherubim   tread 

The  shine  of  their  feet  as  downward  it  beat 
To  the  shine  of  the  clouds  overhead. 

And  the   sun   as   it  throbbed  with  its   scintillant 

gold, 

And  the  noon  in  its  zenith  of  power 
As  it  sprang  forth  new  born  from  the  bosom  of 

Morn, 
Sent  the  world  into  bloom,  like  a  flower. 

And  the  wind  o'er  the  hills  and  the  wind  o'er  the 
vales, 

As  it  met  in  the  silence  supreme, 
Woke  strain  after  strain,  like  the  golden  refrain 

Of  a  rhapsody  set  to  a  dream. 

And  I  said,  I  have  seen,  I  have  seen,  and  I  know, 

In  the  Universe,  glory  alight : 
Lies  the  infinite  whole  of  the  infinite  soul 

Of  a  Universe  hidden  from  sight. 


3Jn  a  Portuguese  Garden       253 

And  the  tears  that  I  wept  were  like  floods  in  the 
Spring 

That  the  south  winds  of  April  create, 
And  I  said,  I  have  seen  what  is  lying  between 

The  Earth  and  the  Heaven  that  I  wait. 


254.      3n  a  Portuguese 


NOVEMBER 

I 

NOVEMBER  SUNRISE  AT  THE  SEA 

THE  horizon  line  is  glimmering  dusky  red, 
And  the  pale  filmy  sun,  awakens  from  sleep, 
And  strong  winds  blown  across  the  marshes  keep 
The  bushes  cowed,  as  with  a  trampling  tread  ; 
The  flowers  that  erewhile  lit  the  ways  are  dead  ; 
And  the  gray  earth,  far  as  the  eye  can  sweep, 
Ragged,  and  torn,  and  sodden,  seems  asleep 
With  the  chill,  pallid  damps,  of  pallid  dread  ;  — 
The   sea's    green     waves   break     foaming   on    the 

shore, 

And  wild  birds  flapping  overhead,  go  by, 
And,  roused  from  couch  of  mullein  down,  to  soar, 
One   last,   gold,    sky-beribboned   butterfly, 
Unknowing  that  its  gaudy  reign  is  o'er, 
Like  a  winged  fleur-de-lis,  sails  forth  to  die. 


3n  a  Portuguese  harden       255 


ii 


Wrapt  in  mysterious  light  thou  dreamest  dreams 
O  sad  November,   and  for  short,  sweet  space 
Stay'st  thine  advance  and  with  resplendent  grace 
Each  hectic  leaf  sends  forth  bewildering  gleams, 
And  glory  runs  from  mountain  tops  in  streams. 
And  held  fast  locked  in  a  supreme  embrace 
Summer  looks  down  with  its  divinest  face 
As  if  too  pitying,  to  withdraw  its  beams — 
Dream    on,    November !     Thou,    too,    soon    wilt 

wake 

To  disenchantment  and  to  ruin  bleak ; 
Masking  in  guise  of  June,  thou  canst  not  make 
The  June's  soul  thine,  for  thou  wert  born  to  reck 
In  mists  of  desolation ;  nor  canst  break 
From  curse  of  doom,  though  all  the  gods  should 

speak. 


256      3n  a  Portuguese  ©arDen 


in 


Grim  sullen  clouds  that  melancholy  ride, 
Prescient  of  storm,  across  the  chill  gray  sky, 
Ye  hover  low,  as  sunlight  to  defy 
And  the  dead  Summer's  phantom  to  deride ; 
The  leaves  have  blown  from  forest  ways  aside, 
And  in  the  naked  hollows,  torn-veined,  lie, 
And  o'er  the  stricken  earth,  the  North  winds  sigh 
For   the    glad-hearted    flowers     that     long   since 

died — 

Darker  and  still  more  threatening  ye  grow 
Heavy  with  unshed  tears,  till  spent  with  pain 
From   the  blanched  heavens  ye  pour  your  utter 

woe 

In  a  wild  turbulence  of  hopeless  ruin. 
And  Autumn  stripped  of  pomp,  is  beaten  low, 
The  glory  of  its  pageant  all  in  vain. 


Jn  a  Portuguese  aacDen       257 

IV 

THREE  DAYS  IN  NOVEMBER 

The  leaves  have  fallen,  and  the  fitful  light 

Wavers  above  them  from  the  spectral  sun, 

And    o'er   the   skies,    thin   blue,   half   threatening 

run 

The  clouds  that  darken  in  their  northward  flight ; 
Beneath  the  vines  as  if  resisting  blight, 
That  into  tangles  by  the  winds  are  spun, 
The  yellowing  of  the  grasses  has  begun — 
Touched  by  the  morning  frost-webs  silvery  white. 
The  widowed  Earth  in  loneliness  supreme 
Enshrouds  herself  in  a  thick  veil  of  woe, 
And  robed  in   sackcloth,  in  a   frozen  dream, 
Sees,  one  by  one,  her  fairest  treasures  go ; 
Hearing  no  more  the  song  of  bird  or  stream, 
Only  the  funeral  dirges,  wild  winds  blow. 


258      3n  a 


The  rain  is  dropping  from  the  ashen  skies 

Dull  tears  that  Autumn  weeps  with  dull  dismay, 

And  the  disheveled  hills  are  drowned  in  gray, 

And  a  thick  fog  impenetrable  lies 

Over  the  sullen  sea  that,  hidden,  sighs  ; 

The  ground  is  sodden  and  dead  leaves  obey 

The  pools'  insistence  and  are  borne  away, 

And  on  their  murky  bosoms  matted  rise. 

The  Earth  with  hopeless  misery  seems  spent, 

As  if  its  soul  held  place  in  some  dead  zone 

Where  supplications  for  escape  were  pent, 

As  if,  with  its  own  weeping  it  had  grown 

So  numb  with  pain,  that  were  the  Sun's  face  sent 

Not  even  the  resurrection  would  atone. 


Sn  a  Portugue0e  ®arDen       259 

The  sun  is  golden  struggling  through  the  mist, 
And   o'er  the   Heavens   great   flecks   of  blue   are 

spread, 

And  the  long  line  of  sea  from  its  pale  bed 
Into  pathetic   splendor  has  been  kissed ; 
The  recovered  hills   are  crowned  with  amethyst, 
And  the  trees'  naked  branches  that  have  shed 
Their  sprays  of  rainbows  in  the  light  blush  red 
And  lure  the  sparrows  to  a  noonday  tryst. 
The   scented  air,  blown   from   the   South,   sweeps 

by 

As  if  from  Summer,  and  the  oak  leaves  glow 
In  the  moist  pathways  as  they  sunlit  lie 
As  if  death  were  not  death  ;  and  rousing  slow 
The  fractious  Earth  forgets  awhile  to  sigh 
And  smiles,  as  smiles  the  dying,  glad  to  go. 


260      3n  a  Portuguese 


As  to  cheat  back  the  glory  that  once  crowned, 
The  sunlight  of  this  transient  summer  falls, 
Illumining  the  vines  that  cling  the  walls, 
And  trail  their  tangled  crimson  on  the  ground ; 
The  warm  south  winds  are  blowing  softly  round, 
And   a  half-wakened  bee,   'chance   that   recalls 
The  vision  of  some  rose  that  still  enthralls, 
Goes  noiseless  searching  for  the  rose  unfound. 
Tender,  mysterious,  from  the  mist  unwon, 
We  seek  to  trace  the  distant  hills,  in  vain ; 
But  the  whole  sky  scaping,  it  has  put  on 
Divinest  blue  of  its  divinest  reign ; 
And  we  might  dream  June  sunlight  had  not  gone 
If  but  the  rose,  the  rose,  would  bloom  again. 


3n  a  Portugue0e  <$artien 


VI 


The  gold  of  early  autumn  tarnished  lies, 
And  the  deep  gloom  of  the  November  days 
Hangs  o'er  the  watery  sun  in  heavy  haze, 
That  struggle  of  its  flickering  light  defies. 
The  forest  pine-trees  breathe  despairing  sighs, 
And  fleet  hawks  scream  above  sequestered  ways, 
And  in  a  matted  heap  where  moisture  stays 
Great  flecks  of  brown,  the  once  bright  leaves  dis 
guise. — 

Upon  the  barren  hills  and  barren  plain 
The  ragged  stalks,  no  lingering  flowers  display, 
And  echoes  of  the  sea's  eternal  pain 
From  the  near  shore  are  rolling  on  their  way ; 
And   earth's   heart  breaks,   knowing  it   would   be 

vain 
Howso  it  wept,  the  hand  of  death  to  stay. 


262      3n  a  Portuguese  <$arDen 


VII 


TO  A   NOVEMBER   ROSE 

Pale  rose,  that  in  the  pale  November  grew, 
Coming  when  earth's  sweet  fever  that  ran  high, 
And  burned  itself  to  wild  flowers,  had  gone  by, 
As  if  the  summer's  farewell  pierced  thee  through, 
Behold,  in  soft  lament  thou  wearest  hue 
Of  the  wan  moon  that  vexed  thine  autumn  sky 
That  haply,  with  its  wasted  light,  drew  nigh, 
And  shivering,  kissed  thee  while  the  night  winds 

blew. — 

I  watch  thy  half-closed  petals  as  they  part, 
White  as  some  mourner  that  despair  defies, 
Looking  toward  heaven  though  with   a  breaking 

heart. — 

Why    stoop'st   to    smile,   why   mockest   with    dis 
guise? 

Pale  sorcerer,  I  know  thee  as  thou  art, 
The  phantom  of  a  red  rose  blanched  with  sighs. 


3n  a  Portuguese  (gatDen       263 

VIII 

MOONLIGHT 

The  lambs  are  hushed  from  bleating  in  the  fold, 

And  the  long  twilight  has  shut  in  the  day, 

And  silver-shod,  the  moon  goes  on  its  way 

Dropping  its  slender  arrows  pure  and  cold ; 

The  naked  earth,  whose  radiant  robes  grown  old, 

Autumn  has  rent,  in  skeleton  array, 

Shudders,  while  branches  of  the  bare  trees  slay 

The  filmy  light,  too  colorless  to  hold. 

Go,  sad-faced  moon.     Thou  dost  but  add  to  woe 

A  woe  more  absolute :     Take  thy  wan  light 

From  wan  November,  lest  it  piteous  show, 

Its  utter  desolation  and  its  blight ; 

If  fickle,  thou  canst  not  transfigure — go 

And  drown  thyself,  in  constancy  of  Night. 


264-       3n  a  Portuguese 


DECEMBER 

SUNRISE  AT  CHOCORUA 

IN  the  vast  cradle  of  the  firmament 

Thou  liest,  oh  snow  crowned  one,  white  'bovc  thy 

head 

The  morning  star  that  throbs  from  gold  to  red 
Yearns  down  to  thee,  with  sway  magnificent  : 
So  all  inviolate  is  thy  content 
I  watch,  and  lo  !  the  lights  that  have  been  sped 
From  out  the  East,  and  o'er  thce  arching  spread, 
Seem  summoning  thee  to  heavenly  sacrament  :  — 
Begotten  of  chaos,  hurled  from  depths  unknown 
To   thy   majestic   place,   'neath  fires   that   climb, 
And  flush  thy  forehead,  by  the  Eternal  blown, 
Thou  seemst  from  sound  and  dreamless  sleep  of 

Time, 

While  the  great  sun  has  to  full  splendor  grown, 
Half  stirred  to  wakening,  with  a  smile  sublime. 


3fn  a  pottugue0e  Garden 


DECEMBER  AT  THE  HEADLANDS 

The  North  wind  blows  the  light  snow  'cross  the 

shore 

And  whirls  it  feathery  out,  wild  winged  and  free 
Into  the  iridescence  of  the  sea, 
And  on  the  sky,  like  a  song's  matchless  score, 
The  headlands  sculptured  lie,  while  o'er  and  o'er 
Dashing  against  their  stone  fronts  riotously, 
As  at  some  Triton's,  bugle-blown,  decree, 
Great  tides  of  jeweled  waters,  rush  and  roar;  — 
The  silent  earth  enclad  in  filmy  white, 
Lies  as  if  dead  ;  and  yet  adown  the  air, 
Because  the  sun,  mightier  than  ocean's  might, 
Will  some  day  kiss  its  snow-wrapt  bosom  bare, 
Despite     the     shroud,     despite     the     flowers     in 

blight- 
We   know,   we   know   the    Spring    lies     embryoed 

there. 


BOOK  VII 
MISCELLANEOUS 


BLUE  BELLS 

BRIGHT  blue  bells,  clustering  in  the  olden  way 

In  the  same  garden  where  in  days  divine 

Ye  seemed  like  goblets  filled  with  dewy  wine 

For  butterflies  athirst,  I  sigh  to-day, 

While  on  your  slender  stems  you  softly  sway, 

That    when    they    touch    you    now    with    wings 

ashine 

I  hear  no  more — how-so,  mine  ears  incline, 
The    wild,    sweet    jubilant    chimes    ye    used    to 

play  ;— 

—Yet  as  I  watch  your  veins'  transparency. 
Something  of  the  old  glamour  haunts  me  still ; 
Ye  seem  again,  warm  nurslings  of  the  sky, 
And  as,  sun  kissed,  ye  drink  your  azure  fill, 
Almost  I  might  believe  that  from  on  high 
Ye  could  bring  back  a  message,  at  your  will. 


270      3(n  a  Portuguese 


A  LINE  OF  SUNFLOWERS 

LOVERS,  enamored  lovers  of  the  day, 

Ye  have  outshaken  your  petals  on  the  air 

Till  like  great  suns  unorbited,  ye  flare 

And  through  the  filmy  fleeces  burn  your  way  ; 

The  hollyhocks  their  blushing  tributes  pay 

And  from  their  hearts,  bees,  noon  assembled, 

bear 

Mysterious  messages,  the  while  ye  share 
The  secrets  of  the  winds  that  round  ye  play  ; 
Along  the  line  ye  blaze,  like  gold  fires  set, 
To  make  the  yellow  sunshine  seem  more  bright, 
And  chance,  charm  back  the  rose  and  violet, 
And  yet,  with  all  your  sorceries  alight 
Ye  cannot  stay  the  whippoorwills'  regret 
Or  lure  divine-voiced  thrushes  from  their  flight. 


3n  a  Portuguese  ®arOen       271 

UNTO  MY  SOUL 

UNTO  my  Soul,  I  said,  "Thou  hast  drunk  deep 
Of  life's  red  wine,  why  art  thou  not  content? 
Thou  hast  sailed  space,  and  to  the  desert  lent 
A  desolation  vaster  than  its  sweep ; 
Thou  hast  seen  starlight   scarlet  flowering,  leap 
Into  divinest  music  flaming  sent, 
And  wept  above  the  ashes  white  and  spent 
Of  visions  fled,  too  heavenly  fair  to  keep. 
Insatiate  Soul,  all  things  that  thou  hast  known 
Are  part  of  thee — the  early  joy  of  Spring. 
The  vast  despairs,  the  starlight  scarlet  blown 
And  even  the  songs  thou  dream'dst,  but  couldst 

not  sing: 

How  be  content,  with  yesterdays  outgrown? 
How   be   content   who,   untamed,   higher   wouldst 

wing?" 


272       3n  a  Portugue0e 


MUSIC 

O  Music,  child  of  that  endazzling  sphere, 

Unarched  and  unhorizoned,  on  thy  wings 

Ethereal  spread,  thou  liftest  me  past  rings 

Of  the  orchestral  planets,  until  near 

The  veiled  immeasurable,  almost  I  hear, 

The  rippling  of  the  splendid  light  that  springs 

From   crown    to   crown,   and    o'er  thy   forehead 

flings 

The   streaming  rainbows  that  thereon  appear.  — 
Soul  of  the  new-born  Spring's  antiphony 
And  of  the  deeps  that  call,  beyond  the  line 
That  is  invisible,  twixt  land  and  sea, 
Past  purple  edge  of  earth,  into  the  shrine 
Of  the  ineffable,  thou  liftest  me 
Through  zone  on  zone,  up  to  the  all  divine. 


3n  a  Porttigue0e  Parpen       273 

TO  HOLLYHOCKS 

GORGEOUS    magicians,    flaming   here     and     there, 
The  streaming  fires  that  on  your  bosoms  glow, 
Ye  come  too  late,  the  silver  tunes  to  know 
That  lilies  trumpet  through  the  Summer  air 
Or  clustering  bluebells  chime ;  but  brazen  flare, 
Through  smoky  yellow  heats,  while  to  and  fro 
Through  the  enmuffling  August  sunshine  go 
Great  butterflies,  that  shadowy  banners  bear; 
Your  silken  petals  that  full  opened  show 
In  mimic  folds,  as  channels  for  the  dew. 
Wherefore    so    strange    enfashioned,    none    may 

know 

Nor  can  we  from  the  universe  gain  clew 
If  it  was  some  vast  dread  or  some  wild  woe 
With  which  ye  were  enwrinkled  as  ye  blew. 


274.      3n  a  Portuguese 


SUMMER  IN  A  CITY 

WILD  flowers  in  distant  dells  are  calling  me 

And  the  great  sun  is  pointing  outward,  where, 

Cleared  from  the  smoky  film  of  city's  air, 

It  will  flood  honeysuckles  by  the  sea  ; 

I  follow  it  and  know  it  will  kiss  free 

From    the    sheathed    orchids,    rose   fires,    flaming 

there, 

And  that  above  each  flower  that  'scapes  its  snare 
Will  drift  entranced  a  golden  girted  bee  ; 
Across  the  level  sands,  grown  doubly  sweet, 
Will  come  the  clover  scent  from  new  mown  grass, 
And   should    I    eastward    turn,    mine    eyes    would 

meet 

The  vine-clad  glory  of  a  wild  morass, 
And  if  turned  westward,  flaming  at  my  feet 
Great  cups,  held  high,  lest  I  unseeing  pass. 


3n  a  Portuguese  <$arUen       275 

Still,  still  I  hear  them,  from  fields  daisy-crowned, 
From  brooksides,  meadows  and  the  marshy  ways, 
And  know  how  the  thin,  summer  heated  haze 
Will,  purple  raptured,  hover  o'er  the  ground ; 
How  to  the  blue  heavens  by  a  blue  line  bound 
The  outstretched  sea,  with  sunshine  all  ablaze, 
Will  lie,  like  an  embosomed  chrysoprase, 
While    murmurous    silence    faints    from    murmur 
ous   sound. 
Why  lingerest  thou,  my  soul?     If  thou  wouldst 

keep 

Thine  earlier  daring,  thou  must  dwell  in  sight 
Of  the  sublime,  immeasurable  deep, 
And  bathe  thyself  in  the  translucent  light 
Of  salt  breathed  days ;  and  learn  from  seagull's 

flight, 
Breasting  the  ether,  how  the  immense  to  sweep. 


276      3jn  a  I5>ortugue0e 


Still,  still,  and  still  again  they  call  to  me, 

Down  from  the  mountain  peaks  where  wild  winds 

blow, 

And  gentians  on  their  breast  toss  to  and  fro  ; 
And  where  sweep  eagles  mighty  winged  and  free, 
The  heated  pavements  burn  my  feet.     I  sec 
Humanity  in  swarms  that  wearied  go, 
Crowding  the  alleys  in  a  listless  flow, 
Dreaming  of  flower  fields,  where  they  fain  would 

be; 

I  shut  mine  eyes:  the  city  fades  away, 
Its  noise  is  changed  to  measures  that  enthrall  ; 
I  see  the  clover  nod,  the  sea's  white  spray, 
And  down  the  mountain  leaps  a  waterfall  ; 
Oh,    soul,    why    shouldst    with    even    the    seagulls 

stay, 
When  from  the  sun's  great  heart  the  eagles  call? 


a  Portiigue0e  <S5arDen       277 


I  LOOK  up  at  the  sky, 

So  blue,  and  so  immeasurably  high, 

So  passionately  blue  and  all  divine, 

And  hear  the  swish  of  waters  at  my  feet, 

Of  waves  borne  onward  from  the  horizon  line, 

That  their  Eternal  Litanies  repeat, 

And  then  with  sighs  like  those  of  violins ;  retreat 

I  know  not  where. 

And  summer  seems  so  luminously  fair 
My  soul  sails,  like  a  seagull  through  the  air, 

And  riots  with  the  tides : 
And  stringed  like  an  ethereal  lyre, 
The  morning  sunshine  glides 

From  wave  to  wave,  and  crowns  the  sea  with  fire : 
I  plunge  in  it,  and  feel 

The  golden  splendor  racing  through  my  veins 
And  grow   intoxicate  with  desire 
To  reach  the  Limitless  Unseen, 
And  catch  the  glitter  and  the  sheen 
Of  that  o'erwhelming  light 
That  floods  the  Infinite 
With  nought  between. 
My  soul  forgets  its  clanking  chains : 
I  see  the  clouds  like  chariots  roll  by ; 
And  mount  and  mount  and  wheel: 
I  reach  them,  pass  them  and  then  pass  the  sky 
And  with  my  soul's  wings,  still  outspread 

The  universe  defy. 


278       Un  a  Portuguese  <$ar&en 

I  sail  on,  till  the  moon  is  nigh 

And  all  the  gold  fires  die : 

The  sea  grows  calm,  and  the  whole  sky 

Like  a  great   sapphire  seems  therein  to  lie. 

Once  more  I  plunge,  and  know 

Who  breast  the  line  where  sky  and  sea  are  one, 

It  is  the  heart  of  Heaven  I  hear  in  oceans'  flow : 

The  other  beckons  upward,  and  I  go 

And  sail  up  toward  the  sun 
That  seems  to  flash  and  flame  and  flare 
As  of  Jehovah's  breath  aware, 
Whose  ecstasy  I  fain  would  share 
Whose   ecstasy   I    fain  would   dare : — 
I  dare  it — pass  it,  and  then  pass  the  sky 

And  fly  and  fly  and  fly 
Into  the  limitless  for  which  I  sigh 
And  with  my  soul's  wings  still  outspread 

The  universe  defy. 


Jn  a  Portuguese  @atDen       279 

AT  THE  RIVER 

AGAIN  adown  the  cliff  the  south  winds  blow 

And  kiss  the  drowsy  poppies  into  flame; 

And  the  blue  river  winding  on  the  same 

Is  singing  as  it  ripples  soft  and  low : 

The  lazy  bees  that  through  the  sunshine  go 

F"or  purple  shelter  of  the  clover  aim 

And  pilgrim  butterflies  their  gold  shrines  claim 

Of  wide-oped  roses  that  by  wayside  grow ; 

All  is  unchanged ;  the  sapphire  of  the  sky, 

The  river's  limpid  flow,  the  daisies'  swing, 

The  dew-crowned  grass,  the  swallows  sailing  by, 

And  sense  of  music,  summer  seems  to  bring 

As  if  it,  silver-fluted,  sigh  on  sigh 

Of  its  own  rapture,  like  some  living  thing. 


280       3Jn  a  Portuguese  ®arDen 


ON  THE  CLIFF 


I  STOOD  upon  the  cliff  where  wild  flowers  grew, 
And  countless  perfumes  filled  the  summer  air, 
And  butterflies  were  floating  here  and  there; 
And  at  my  feet  outstretched,  divinely  blue, 
The  ocean  lay ;  An  oriole  up  flew 
The  blazing  sapphire  of  the  heavens  to  dare, 
And   'cross   the   channeled   sky   the   clouds   sailed 

fair, 

And  the  great  sun  towards  its  zenith  drew. 
O  earth  so  palpitate  with  mystery ! 
O  birds  and  flowers  and  flaming  butterflies, 
Can  ye  interpret  heart  of  June  to  me? 
Ye  make  no  answer,  but  a  voice  replies, 
Wrung  from  the  mighty  travailing  of  the  sea 
In  whose  vast  undertone  the  eternal  lies. 


3n  a  I£>ortitgue0e 


n 


The    travailing    died    to    murmurs : — hill    peaks 

gleamed — 

The  blossoms  of  a  larch,  shone  silvery  white ; 
The  day  was  swooning  with  too  full  delight 
And  o'er  its  breast,  a  liquid  glory  streamed. — 
No  ripple  stirred  the  grass — The  clover  seemed 
With  purple  drugged,  and  the  whole  cliff  in  sighs 
Lay,  golden  drowsing  'neath  the  sun,  at  height ; 
And  earth  and  air  and  sky  and  ocean  dreamed. 
I  watched,  as  tide-swept,  by  the  matchless  glow 
Silence,  in  undulations  rise  and  fall, 
And  through  the  atmosphere,  incarnate  go, 
With  soundless  ecstasy  enflooding  all, 
And  more  entranced,  than  listening  music's  flow, 
Was  breathless  held,  in  its  consummate  thrall. 


a  Portuguese  <£>arDen 


in 


Across  the  sea  illimitably  blue, 

Where  the  white  ships  went  silent  sailing  by, 

I  bade  my  soul  on  eager  pinions  fly 

And  to  its  everlasting  moan,  find  clew. 

I    heard,    up    from    its    caves,    the    tides    sweep 

through, 

And  a  lone  seagull  in  the  distance  cry, 
And  every  wave  breathed  a  despairing  sigh, 
As  if  the  heart  of  ocean  broke  anew. 
O  sea,  upon  thine  other  far-off  shore, 
Thine  other  shore,  for  which  I  needs  must  pine, 
My  soul  will  rest,  and  supplicate  no  more ; 
And  out  beyond  this  agony  of  thine, 
Beyond  the  ships,  with  mystic  freights  they  bore, 
Reach  the  gold  lights  that  in  the  harbor  shine. 


a 


NASTURTIUMS 

YE  have  relit  your  fires  of  lurid  gold, 

O  gay  Nasturtiums,  and  with  all  the  rays 

Of  all  the  suns  of  summer  are  ablaze, 

Quaffing  the  noon's  elixir  as  of  old  ; 

The  lilies  by  the  river,  pure  and  cold, 

Look    wondering   toward    ye,    from    their    sylvan 

ways 

As  gaudy  poised  ye  flutter  through  the  days 
Like  butterflies  that  fain  would  wings  unfold, 
O  gorgeous  shining  flowers  !     O  blossom  bright 
Of  radiant  souled  July!  out  through  the  dew 
Ye  send  a  thousand  pointed  shafts  of  light 
That  sting  me  to  remembrance  anew 
Ye  are  the  torches,  ere  the  funeral  rite 
The  summer's  splendid  vaunt  ere  death  shall  woo. 


28-t       3n  a  Portuguese  harden 

THE  VAGRANT 

I  PLUCKED  a  flower  that  in  an  alien  place 

Among  the  roses  I  had  chanced  descry, — 

A  vagrant  that  had  wild  and  sweet  and  shy, 

Though  exiled,  bloomed  in  solitary  grace, 

No  tender  care  had  sought  its  growth  to  trace 

But  sun  and  dew  and  air,  and  smiling  sky 

Had  wrought  their  miracles,  till  roses  nigh 

Could  not  entice  the  bees   from  its  embrace ; 

I  know  not,  if  the  flowers  to  mold  have  grown, 

But  I  have  wondered  whether  valley-born 

That    flower   had   not,    though   among   the    roses 

blown 

For   its   own   kindred   sighed — nay  yestermorn 
I  saw  its  golden  mate,  whose  golden  zone 
Was  drenched  with  tears,  as  if  it  wept  forlorn. 


3n  a  Pottugue0e  harden      285 

OUT  OF  THE  PRISON  HOUSE 

I  HEARD  the  yearning  voice  of  Spring 

Clamoring  to  me  like  some  wild  thing; 

I  heard  the  sapphire  sea  implore ; 

I  heard  the  young  leaves,  o'er  and  o'er 

Cry  out,  resistless  in  their  gold, 

To  fires  within  me  growing  cold : 

Wake,  ailing  soul,  bid  doubts  take  wing; 

Wake,  and  make  answer  to  the  Spring! 

I  heard  the  calling  of  the  wind, 

Blowing,  salt-breathed,  and  unconfined, 

That  'cross  the  soft  young  grasses  swept, 

And  on  its  southward  journey  kept, 

Bringing  me  news  of  flowering  plain, 

And  hillside  floods  let  loose  again, 

Calling,  "How  deep  thy  wounds,  how  sharp  life's 

sting, 
Wake  and  make  answer  to  the  Spring!" 

Ah,  not  in  vain  the  cry  of  Spring, 
Clamoring  to  me  like  some  wild  thing, 
For  all  the  rapture  of  the  sea 
And  all  the  golden  ecstasy 
Of  leaves  and  grass  and  flowers  withal 
Lift  me  to  wing  forth  at  its  call: 
How  hug  despair,  how  heed  life's  sting, 
Intoxicate  with  breath  of  Spring! 


286      3n  a  Portuguese  ©arDett 

A  VISION 

I  KNOW  not  what  the  radiant  vision  wore, 
It  was  some  sheeny  drapery,  of  the  hue 

That  edging  sunset  clouds  when  day  is  o'er, 
Faints  into  lilac  on  the  twilight's  blue ; 
The   color  of  the  heather   sunlit  through   and 
through. 

I  know  not  what,  divine  withheld,  she  thought, 
She  had  a  look  of  rapture  in  her  eyes, 

As  if  from  looking  eastward  she  had  caught, 
Glad  intimations   from  the  morning  skies, 
That    held    her     soul     enthralled   with    mystic 
prophecies. 

I  know  not  where  the  radiant  vision  went, 

She  left  no  flowers  that  I  her  way  might  trace, 
As  loved  of  Dis,  and  yet  I  am  content, 

She   will    come  back   the    heart    of   spring  to 

grace, 

And  with  the  hyacinths  take  her  hyacinthine 
place. 


a  Portuguese  <$arDen 


TWO  MOODS 
TO-DAY 

I  AM  exultant  souled  to-day, 
I  am  a  comrade  of  the  sun, 
And  ride  the  sky,  with  blue  o'errun 

In  the  sun's  own  imperial  way  — 

I  am  exultant  souled  to-day. 

I  watch  the  linden  blossoms  sway, 
Their  scents  intoxicate  the  air; 
I  quaff  it,  and  forget  despair, 

And  the  wild  will  of  joy  obey  — 

I  am  exultant  souled  to-day. 

I  am  the  sun,  the  sky,  the  day, 

I  feel  impalpable,  divine, 

Their  beating  hearts  beat  unto  mine; 
Bid  me  "God  speed"  upon  my  way, 
I  am  exultant  souled  to-day. 


288      Jn  a  Portuguese 


YESTERDAY 

So  blue  the  sky  of  yesterday, 
Into  its  bosom  I  was  drawn, 
And  heard  the  music  of  the  dawn, 
And  held  the  golden  East  in  sway  — 
So  blue  the  sky  of  yesterday. 

So  matchless,  sun  of  yesterday, 
I  caught  the  rapture  of  its  pace, 
And  followed,  till  aflood  in  space 
The  apocalypse  hid  earth  away  — 
So  matchless,  sun  of  yesterday. 

The  apocalypse  hid  earth  away  ; 

I  held  the  keys  of  life  and  sight. 

Oh  sun,  new  sun  just  risen  to  light, 
Though  a  new  heaven  may  lie  thy  way, 
I  wing  the  heaven  of  yesterday. 


3n  a  Porttigue0e  Garden       289 

TO  A  FRINGED  GENTIAN 

WHY  should  I  sigh  that  summer  flowers  are  dead? 
For  fair  as  any  summer  flower  that  grew, 
Thou   art,   0   gentian,     brimming   with     the   blue 
Of  the  immeasurable  deep  o'erhead. 
Thou  grewest,  shadowed  in  thy  mountain  bed 
By  the  empurpled  peaks,  and  bright  with  dew, 
Catching  the  golden  light  that  flickered  through, 
In  shy  wild  grace,  I  saw  thee  lift  thy  head ; 
O  sky-fringed  rapture,  thou  mayst  well  be  fair, 
Who  liv'st  mid  forest  hushes,  and  its  sighs, 
And  hear'st  the  whippoorwill's  divine  despair ; 
No  wonder  that  in  thine  aerial  guise 
Thou  shouldst,  unconsciously,  "the  Heavens  de 
clare" 
Who  boldest  Heaven  in  thy  cerulean  eyes. 


290      Un  a  Portuguese  <2>arDen 

MAGNOLIAS 

THE  full  moon  o'er  the  dazzling  hill-tops  sails 
And  shines  translucent  on  the  grass  below 
And  I  half  listen,  as  once  long  ago, 
On  the  Campagna,  for  the  nightingales ; 
The  nightingales  sing  not,  but  'cross  the  vales 
Divinely  borne  by  perfumed  winds  that  blow, 
Laments  of  whippoorwills  onwafted  go 
To  where,  full  opened,  the  magnolia  pales ; 
Flooded  with  splendor  the  magnolias  vie 
With  flowers  of  Rome ;  and  the  ensilvered  hills 
Might  be  her  classic  throne,  save  that  near  by 
Their  tangled  deeps  enbosom  whippoorwills. 
And  yet  what  matters  it,  far  hills  or  nigh, 
When  the  same  white  May  moon  the  whole  world 
thrills  ? 


3n  a  Iportuguese  <$arDen       291 


LILACS 

ADOWN  a  way  with  lilacs  lined  I  went, 

The     purple     of     their     plumes     just     breaking 

through, 

And  half-forgotten  dreams  within  me  pent, 
No  longer  phantoms,  back  to  beauty  grew  : 
And   what   I   mourned   as   dead   sprang   into   life 

anew. 

Shadows  of  leaves  the  wind  blew  to  and  fro 
Were    drifting,    golden,    o'er    the    sun-drenched 

ground, 

And  the  whole  heavens  above  and  earth  below 
With  silence  seemed  a-throb,  as  if  Spring  found 
The  music  flooding  it,  too  exquisite  for  sound. 

The  mists  shone  on  the  hills  like  happy  tears  ; 
The  white  clouds  overhead  went  flocking  by  ; 
I  caught  a  scent  that  came  'cross  gulf  of  years, 
Diviner  than  of  lilacs  growing  nigh  ; 
I  was  a  child  again,  that  had  not  learned  to  sigh  ! 

Thus,  Spring  on  Spring,  when  into  purple  glow 
I  see  the  lilacs  opening,  day  by  day, 
Back,  'cross  the  stormy  gulf  of  years  I  go, 
And  age,  .and  grief,  and  failures,  drop  away  : 
Oh,  life  so  bitter  sweet  —  I  am  a  child  in  May. 


GLADIOLUS 

I  QUESTION  not  they  bear  a  fitting  name, 
These  bladed  lilies,  as  with  spears  aglow, 
Lifted  in  martial  order,  row  on  row, 
I  watch  their  blossoms  into  color  flame ; 
Some  into  blush  that  e'en  roses  shame 
Some  dusky  red,  some  that  from  orange  grow 
To  a  faint  saffron  and  then  fainter  go 
Into  the  mystic  pallors  death  might  claim. 
At  sight  of  them — I  hear  adown  the  years 
Rome's   warriors   answering   to   the  battle   cry 
And  clash  of  arms,  and  thud  of  feet,  and  cheers 
Of  the  wild  multitudes  that  when  drawn-nigh 
Turn  frightened,  as  the  smoke  of  battle  clears, 
And  from  the  awful  scene  of  carnage  fly. 


3n  a  Iportugue0e  (SterDen       293 

And  yet  since  so  allied  the  lilies  grow, 

Why  should  I  but  of  death  and  warfare  dream? 

It  is  the  lilies,  not  the  swords,  that  gleam 

And  turned  from  tumults,  'cross  the  seas  I  go 

To  where  the  peaceful  Roman  lilies  blow 

On  the  Campagna  and  where  light  winds  seem, 

Waked  into  music  with  the  sun's  first  beam, 

Wafting  them,  golden-rhythmed,  to  and  fro ; 

Turned   to    their    signals.     Hark !     I     hear    the 

sound 

Of  birds  exultant  singing  in  the  ways 
Where     once     rang    bugles,     and     see,     morning 

crowned, 

Leaned  on  the  skies  as  in  the  olden  days, 
The  distant  dome  of  the  Cathedral,  drowned 
In   sapphire-shining  deeps,   of  sapphire  haze. 


SWALLOW,  dear  swallow,  sharp-winged,  sailing  by, 
Stay  yet,  and  through  the  golden  sunshine  pass, 
And  dart  from  tree  to  tree,  above  the  grass, 
That  we,  too  soon,  may  not  for  Summer  sigh. 
Entreat    the    lingering    thrush    that  mounts   on 

high, 

Though  morning-glories  bloom  no  more,  alas ! 
Unto  the  heavens  to  sing  its  morning  mass 
And  drench  again  the  dawn  in  ecstasy ; 
Unthinned   the   quivering   leaves,    and   all   aflame 
The  lilies  in  the  field  are  not  o'erpast ; 
Skim  low,  and  brazen  sunflowers  put  to  shame 
Usurping  reign  of  rose  too  fair  to   last. 
Take  thy  short  flights  before  mine  eyes  the  same ; 
Thou,  who  art  Summer's  lover,  hold  it  fast. 


Jn  a  Portuguese  (^arUen       295 

Thou  heedest  not,  O  swallow,  my  desire, 
For  summer  has  escaped  thee,  nor  couldst  keep, 
And  swift,  as  to  o'ertake,  I  see  thee  sweep 
And  trail  thy  shadow  cross  the  sunset's  fire ; 
Thou  wilt  go  on  with  wings  that  never  tire, 
Out  toward  the  horizon,  when  from  infant  sleep, 
The  moon  will  cling  to  bosom  of  the  deep, 
And  the  last  flickering  light  of  day  expire. 
Ah,  if  thou  hitherward  again  couldst  race, 
And  breathe  to  me  that  thou  hadst  chanced  to 

stray, 

The  ether  traversing,  to  that  bright  place 
Through  which  the  summer  went  its  shining  way, 
If  broughtst  not  back  summer  in  thine  embrace 
How  welcome  thou,  I  should  not  bid  thee  stay. 


296      3fn  a  Portuguese  harden 

Nay,  never  through  the  purple  air  canst  glide, 
And    through    the    twilight's    gloom    retrace    thy 

ways 

And  find  the  summer  pathway  through  the  haze, 
Hung  o'er  the  forests,  that  thou  swepst  aside, 
The  sunset's  flame  that  lured  thee  long  since  died, 
And  left  no  traces  of  their  golden  blaze ; 
And  through  a  newer  summer's  perfect  days 
Thou  wilt  once  more  with  perfumed  south  winds 

ride. 

Swallow,  oh,  swallow,  fickle  though  thou  art, 
Still,   still   I   hold   thee   dear,   who   mad'st  bright 

track, 

Flinging  the  morning's  tears  from  off  thy  heart, 
Nor  knew'st  them  tears,  nor  even  knew'st  thy 

lack, 

And  yet  of  radiant  summer  mad'st  a  part, 
And  bore  it  out,  yet  cannot  bring  it  back. 


3n  a  Portuguese  <$arDen       297 

ON  A  STORM-BEATEN  SEA  CLIFF 

FAR    from    the     crowded     city     and    the    sound 

Of  its  unending  traffic,  and  the  glare 

Of  its  paved  avenues  and  alleys,  where 

The  stones  grow  hot  above  the  smoking  ground 

I    sat    and    watched    the  sea   with    waves,  foam 

crowned, 

That,  flinging  rainbows,  chased  each  other  there 
And  drank  in  the  intoxicating  air 
As  if  elixir  of  the  gods  were  found 
The  cool  soft  grasses  clustered  at  my  feet 
And  fleecy  clouds  trailed  silvery  toward  the  west, 
And  I  forgot  awhile  the  fevered  heat 
Of  the  great  city's  heart,  nay,  as  each  crest 
Plunged  to  the  sea  again  in  its  retreat, 
Forget  all  else,  save  its  divine  unrest. 


298      3n  a  Portuguese  <5acDen 

Nor  yet  could  turn  away,  for,  masts  aglow, 

I  saw  a  distant  ship  sail  radiant 

On,  and  still  on,  to  where  the  sky  down-bent, 

And  out  through  the  inseparate  azure  go 

And  vanish  from  my  sight;  and  singing  low 

The  waves  still  frolicking  untamed,  unspent, 

Like  chosen  envoys  from  the  Paternal  sent. 

That  would  keep  covenants  in  ebb  or  flow : — 

And  then  behold,  the  great  sea  far  and  nigh, 

Blown  by  the  wind,  and  wrapt  in  noonday  shine, 

Leaped  into  emerald  surges  that  rolled  by, 

And  I  could  hear,  up  from  the  shore's  white  line 

A  rushing  rapture  breaking  to  a  sigh, 

Nor  knew,  if  from  the  sea's  glad  lips — or  mine. 


3n  a  IPortugitese  harden      299 

Cliff   born    and   nurtured,    on   their   wind-rocked 

bed 

The  wild  rose  and  the  alder  were  asleep, 
Watched  by  the  efflorescent  moon,  whose  sweep 
Lay  past  the  Pleiades,  dimlit  o'erhead. 
Across  the  sky  a  shining  shroud  was  spread, 
As  the  sun  lying  in  state,  and  upward  sped. 
I  heard  the  waves  eternal  chorused  sweep, 
Into  eternal  imploration  led. 
Bright    dreams    and   vague    regrets    held    me    in 

sway, 

Too   bright,   too  vague   for  moonlight  to   trans 
late, 

And  grief  and  transport  that  behind  me  lay 
Came  rushing  back,  confronting  me  with  fate ; 
Nor  could  sharp  weaponed  grief,  my  soul  dismay 
Since  Love  unslain,  could  transport  recreate. 


300      3n  a  Portuguese  ®arOen 

IN  A  SUBURB 

ALMOST  in  sight  the  busy  city  ends ; 
Yet  here  the  wild  flowers  in  profusion  blow, 
And  grass-grown  valleys   stretching  outward   go 
Where  here  and  there  the  shining  river  bends ! 
Alight  with  golden  fires  September  spends 
Her  gorgeous  days,  whose  morning  vapors  go 
Snatched  by  the  reckless  sunshine's  reckless  glow, 
And  to  its  noons  unshadowed  splendor  lends. 
No  noises  of  the  city  can  be  heard, 
Nor   faintest   movement   of  the  breathless   air, 
But  drifting  up,  with  pinions  scarcely  stirred, 
Great  butterflies  their  gauzy  triumphs  bear ; 
And  hark — the  song  of  a  belated  bird 
Winging  the  hill  peaks  with  its  breast  aflare. 


Jn  a  Portuguese  (DarDen       301 

The  lapsing  hush  is  broken  but  by  call 

Of  locusts  trumpeting  an  ambushed  foe, 

And  swish  of  waters,  in  whose  tidal  flow 

The  very  ripples  as  they  rise  and  fall, 

Are  held  by  its  soft  murmurings  in  thrall. 

And  sinuous   stemmed,   the  floating  lilies   show 

They    sleep,    and    dream ;    and    phantomed    faint 

below 
The  sky  dreams  with  them,  sun,  and  clouds,  and 

all.- 

The  thistle  disks,  with  millions'  silver  rays 
Like  crescent  moons  abloom,  are  shining  near, 
And  lamps  unflickering,  all  along  the  ways 
On  mullein  spikes,  are  burning  vestal  clear, 
And  once  more  caught  to  rapture  as  it  sways, 
That  scarlet  bird  flecking  the  atmosphere. 


302      3n  a  Portuguese 


All  the  day's  gold  in  dazzling  attar  shines 
Round  foreheads   of  the  hills  !      Sublime,  they 

lie 

Chosen  Apostles  of  the  One  Most  High, 
Written  upon  the  earth  in  massive  lines 
Sloped    down    from   heaven,   whereon    each    crest 

reclines. 

And  through  the  silence  not  a  breath  or  sigh 
Disturbs  the  infinite  dream  ;  e'en  bees  go  by 
Wafting  beatitudes  in  noiseless  signs. 
With  all  the  beauty  that  the  wild  flowers  wear, 
With  the  sky  clasped  to  bosom  of  the  stream, 
With  lilies  floating  passionately  fair, 
And  the  hills  blazing,  it  would  almost  seem, 
Lifting  mine  eyes  thereto,  they  might  declare 
I  had  been  face  to  face  with  the  Supreme. 


Kn  a  pottugue0e  ®art»en       303 

MILTON 

LIKE  the  eternal  raptured  undertone 

That  shakes  the  seas'  great  soul  from  strand  to 

strand 

The  voice  of  Milton,  mighty  o'er  the  land 
Has  shaken  the  realms  of  music  zone  on  zone. 
Down  silent  years  its  echoes  have  been  blown 
By  breath  of  Immortality,  to  grand 
And  grander  ring,  till  England  can  command 
The  worship  of  the  world  for  England's  own: 
Milton  whose  song  Heaven's  innermost  Heaven 

could  dare 

Milton  enthroned  as  king  'mong  deathless  ones — • 
Hark,  like  a  rush  of  planets  dazzling  fair 
We  seem  to  hear  it  as  it  onward  runs ; 
Runs  on  sublimely  till  in  upper  air, 
Flame-winged,   flame-lit,   it  passes   suns  on  suns. 


304       3n  a  Portuguese  <SarDen 

AFTER  THE  BURIAL 

BRING  me  some  Lethean  draught,  that  I  may 

know 

A  slumber,  sound,  as  in  my  childhood's  years ; 
Forget  awhile  to  weep,  who  drown  in  tears, 
And  hear  no  more  the  sighing  night  winds  blow : 
The   whippoorwills    that    through   the    moonlight 

g° 

Sing  maddeningly,  and  all  the  pallid  spheres 
Flicker  and  flare,  until  the  night  appears 
Like  a  colossal  presence  draped  with  woe ; 
Some   Lethean   draught — not   poppies,    for    their 

red 

Might  feed  the  fires  that  burn  my  pulses  so ; 
I  hear  a  sound  of  rushing  wings  o'erhead ; 
And    'neath    the    moonlight's    constant    shifting 

glow 

I    cannot,    cannot    sleep — She    sleeps    instead — 
O  wanton  whippoorwills,  sing  low,  sing  low. 


3n  a  Portuguese  <$arDen       305 

What  draught  is   there  that  could  this   anguish 

slake 

Or  from  my  brain  these  visions  seem  to  woo? 
Or  hide  the  throbbing  moonlight  from  my  view? 
If  I  should  sleep  awhile,  I  might  awake, 
While  o'er  and  o'er  again  my  heart  would  break, 
To  hear  the  whippoorwills  complain  anew, 
And  endlessly,  and  endlessly  pursue, 
Those  mounting  wings  I  could  not  overtake. 
Ah!  had  I  lotus  flowers,  who  still  must  weep, 
Like  summer  roses,  on  my  breast  to  wear, 
Something  diviner  even  than  childhood's  sleep 
Might  fall  on  me  adown  the  moonlit  air: 
Oblivion,  so  deep,  so  heavenly  deep 
That  Death  itself,  to  gauge  it  would  not  dare. 


306      in  a  Portuguese  ®arDen 
BROWNING 

OH  England,  Mother  of  that  flame-crowned  race, 
High  priests  of  Song,  who  nurtured  on  thy  breast 
Live  on  immortal, — Browning  with  the  rest, 
Proud  of  thine  ownership  lift  up  thy  face 
His  birthday  on  Time's  shining  page  to  trace, 
Whose   song,    like   thunder    of    the   heavens,   has 

pressed 

Magnificently  onward  East  and  West. 
Till  in  Fame's  citadel  it  has  found  place. 
Fitting  his  advent  to  the  world  of  men 
The  nightingales  should  chorus  near  and  far 
Who  into  Epics  sang  them  back  again, 
Enrapturing  Springs  that  ages  cannot  mar, 
And  set  thy  heavens  to  music  with  a  pen 
Dipt  in  the  flooding  splendor  of  a  star. 


31n  a  Portuguese  aatDen       307 

EDWARD  EVERETT  HALE 

TO  A  GENIUS 

O  SOUL  that  hast  sublime  achievements  known, 
Sailing  superbly  onward  planetwise, 
Sending  thy  perfect  light  across  the  skies, 
Teach  me,  a  language  lofty  as  thine  own ; 
Lift  me  to  air  of  that  resplendent  zone 
Where  thought  on  thought  shall  sublimated  rise 
And  find  their  golden  way  to  paradise, 
Into  divinest  measured  music  grown! — 
Down  in  the  lowly  valleys  where  I  bide. 
\,  Naught  can  desire  appease,  to  reach  thy  height — • 
*  Thou  who  art  with  the  stars  and  suns  allied 
And  knowest  the  ineffable,  of  light. 
Go  circle  space — thou  canst  the  worlds  outride, 
Who  art  Apostle  of  the  Infinite. 


308      3n  a  Portuguese 


TO  A  CHILD  OF  YESTERDAY 

BELOVED  !      Thou  wert  but  a  child  when   I  knew 

thee  ; 

That  fearless  went  forth  into  mists  of  the  years. 
Hast  thou   felt  thrust   of  the  weapon   that   slew 

me? 
Hast  thou  known   struggle  and  blood-sweat   and 

fears, 

And  the  wild  rain  of  tears? 

Thou  who  wert  glad  with  the  gladness  of  morning, 

Coming  toward  April  with  on-flying  feet, 

Hast  thou  of  blackness  of  midnights  had  warn 

ing? 
Hast    thou    grown    faint,    with    the    desert    sun's 

heat  — 

That  on  desert  sands  beat? 

Yet,  what   if  the  whirlwinds   of  living  have  rent 

thee  — 

What  if  thy  soul  has  been  shaken  with  sighs? 
Haply  the  lightning  that  scathed  thee,  has  sent 

thee 

Sight  of  the  hilltops  on  breast  of  the  skies  — 
Unto  which  thou  shalt  rise. 


3n  a  Portuguese  harden       309 

Oh,  the  glory  of  morning  still  lies  upon  thee 
Healing  as  hurt,  hides  in  mists  of  the  years 
Thou  hast  drawn  strength  from  the  hilltops  that 

won  thee 

Risen  from  whirlwinds  and  lightnings  and  tears 
Into  calm  of  the  spheres. 


310      nn  a  Pottugue0e  <$arDen 


O'ER  the  whole  earth  a  quivering  silence  steals ; 
The  air  is  sultry  and  the  springs  are  dry, 
And  gorgeous  butterflies   drift  languorously, 
And  the  pale  sweetbriar  droopingly  reveals 
Its  scorched  and  wilted  foliage,  as  it  feels 
The  blazing  sky's  insistent  scrutiny; 
And  the  bold  thistle,  even,  seems  to  sigh ; 
And,  blanched  with  heat,   its  purple  heart   con 
ceals  ; 

The  brazen  sun  seems  brazenly  to  glance 
With  lured  eye,  unchanging  day  by  day ; 
Fierce  watching,  as  to  see  the  mists  advance 
And  flocks  of  phantom  swallows  sail  away, 
Ere  it  shall  fling  to  earth  its  last  red  lance 
And,  fire-soul'd,  beauty  of  the  summer  slay. 


3rt  a  Portuguese  <$atDen       sn 

WHAT  WILL  IT  MATTER? 

WHAT  will  it  matter  in  some  future  day, 
If  shining  stars  lit  my  unreasoning  heart, 

Or  worn-out  worlds  in  darkness  broke  away? 
Whether  I  sailed  life's  sea  with  map  and  chart, 

Or  tossed  unguided  till  I  reached  the  shore? 

What  will  it  matter  when  I  toss  no  more? 

What  will  it  matter  when  I  lie  at  rest, 

Whether  I  dreamed  and  soared,  and  was  con 
tent, 
Or    felt    love's    sword    sharp    turned    within    my 

breast, 

And  out  of  heaven  to  fires  of  torment  went? 
Whether  I  died  ten  thousand  deaths  before 
What  matter,  when  I  shall  have  died  once  more? 

What  will  it  matter  in  death's  happy  sleep, 
If  the  inconstant  world  I  loved  too  well 

Or  too  much  hated?     If  I  tried  to  keep 

Pace  with  great  souls,  and  won  the  race  or  fell? 

If  blind  with  life  I  missed  its  key  divine, 

What  will  it  matter  when  the  key  is  mine? 


a 


YESTERDAY  AND  TO-DAY 

YESTERDAY  morning  I  looked  forth  and  said 
I  cannot  mend  life,  I  have  broken  the  thread 
And  what  should  I  gain  when  the  whole  world  is 
dead  ? 

The  hills  in  the  distance  were  covered  with  snow 
And  the  world  although  dead,  seemed  alive  in  its 

woe 
And  the  wings  of  thy  soul  as  if  wounded,  drooped 

low. 

—  Ah  was  it  but  yesterday  morning  I  said 
I  cannot  mend  life,  and  the  whole  world  is  dead 
With   millions    hearts    beating,    and    God's    over 
head  ? 


Kn  a  Portuguese  ®arDett 


MARGARET 

WHAT  if  Beloved  I  never  had  known  thee? 
Searching  the  sunshine  and  searching  the  air 
What  if  the  west  wind  never  had  blown  thee, 
Sun-kissed,  and  smiling,  and  fair? 
Hither  to  me,  who  while  waiting  thee  long 
Picked  up  a  reed  to  blow  forth  a  song 
With  which  souls  of  reeds  throng. 

I  blew  on  the  reed,  but  I  never  could  capture 

List'ning  for  sound  of  thy  music-shod  feet, 

A  song  that  had  lilt  of  an  infinite  rapture 

Fitting  thy  coming  to  greet. 

For  song  after  song  from  the  reed  that  I  blew 

Fell  athrob  through  the  air,  like  the  drip  of  the 

dew 
And  to  threnodies  grew. 

I  turned  from  the  songs  and  the  reed  also,  know 

ing 

That  out  of  some,  daffodil  April  dawn  caught 
The  west  wind  would  blow  thee  a  bird's  song  in 

blowing 

With  a  sky-note  from  heaven  it  had  brought. 
Oh  not  for  thine  ear,  the  reed's  songs  I  blew 
But  the  daffodil-dream  of  that  bird  as  it  flew 
Making  rainbows  of  dew. 


a 


LIGHT,  flaming  on  the  hills 

And  fire-fogs  drifting  by, 
And  through  the  thin  rifts,  sudden  thrills 

Of  the  enturquoised  sky. 

The  dead  sun's  vivid  sign 

Set  in  the  heavens  o'erhead, 
And  a  young  moon's  ensilvered  line 

Phantomed  upon  the  red. 

Soft  winds  in  flower  pursuit 

Rapturing  across  the  vales 
Music  as  from  an  unseen  lute 

Or  Lesbean  nightingales. 

Blossoms  on  bush  and  tree 

And  grasses  dewy  bright, 
And  lines  of  foam  upon  the  sea 

Like  shining  drifts  of  light. 

Glory  that  lingering  stays, 

Color,  transfiguring  air, 
And  blown  by  breath  of  th'  Spring  to  blaze 

The  universe  aflarc. 


THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 

HIS  EXCELLENCY'S   SOLILOQUY 
(At  Oyster  Bay) 

I  HAVE  been  chosen  to  be  the  nation's  head, 

I,  who  hear  constantly  the  forest's  call, 

Who  am  by  mountain  forces  held  in  thrall, 

Am  called  the  city's  bounded  streets  to  tread ; 

To  watch  the  thoroughfares  lest  herein  led 

Evil,  fierce-fanged,  my  people  should  appall. 

I  am  their  wills'  embodiment — o'er  all 

I  must  keep  guard  to  shield  from  thing  I  dread. 

I  flinch  not  at  the  task  nor  turn  my  face, 

I,  servant  of  Jehovah,  am  content 

To  wield  his  righteous  sword  and  take  my  place 

With  those  to  whom  through  ages  he  has  lent 

Courage  and  strength  and  holiness  and  grace 

To  hold  undaunted,  duty's  battlement. 


316      3n  a  Portuguese 


I  flinch  not  at  the  task,  and  yet  I  know 

With    quickening    of   the    blood,    how    'cross    the 

plain 

The  loosed  winds  blow,  and  how  like  a  wild  strain 
Of  rushing  music  eagles  swirling  go, 
Beating  their  upward  way  ;  and  dropping  so 
The  cares  of  state  awhile,  chance  I  may  gain, 
From  thought   of  God's  immense,  new  power  to 

reign 

And  a  diviner  guardianship  bestow. 
And  since  mid  multitudes  my  feet  are  set, 
I  turn  me  from  the  mountain  peaks  aflare 
Back  to  Humanity,  nor  can  forget 
He  who  once  bore  it,  held  it  flawless,  fair  ; 
I  will  lead  up  his  way,  nor  will  I  let 
My  spirit  faint  though  countless  scars  I  bear. 


3n  a  Poctugue0e  (gatDen       317 

0  Country !  wonderful  in  might  and  power, 
Akin  to  England,  yet  with  loftier  skies, 
With  glacial  splendors  and  with  suns  that  rise 
Transfiguring  thy  cataracts  hour  by  hour 

To  myriad  rainbows  tumbling  into  flower, 

1  gird  me  with  the  faith  that  in  me  lies 

At  call  of  thy  brave  sons,  stanch-soul'd  to  rise 
And  'bove  the  vapors  of  misgiving  tower. 
I  know  how  great  a  thing  it  is  to  hold 
Grip  of  a  nation  wearing  crown  of  fame, 
And  pledge  thy  sons  of  high  resolve  made  bold 
Covenant  to  keep,  unheeding  praise  or  blame. 
And  borrowing  from  the  rulers  chosen  of  old, 
Faithful  to  serve  them,  in  Jehovah's  name. 


318      jn  a  Portuguese  <$atDen 

A  SONG 

(TO  A  SINGER— J.  P.  M.) 

NOT  with  thy  lips  thou  sang'st  to  me — 

From  gaugeless  deep  that  in  thee  lies 

More  music  haunted  than  the  sea 

But  sweeter  than  a  nightingale 

Whose  silver  notes  through  moonlight  trail 

Thou  sangest  with  thine  eyes. 

Not  with  thy  lips,  thou  soul  of  fire, 
But  like  a  star  that  breaks  the  skies 
At  the  empurpled  Night's  desire, 
The  impulse  of  whose  golden  flare 
Sudden  enharps  the  circling  air 
Thou  sangest  with  thine  eyes. 

No  sound  of  earth  can  drown  the  song, 

For  mystical  as  south  winds'  sighs, 

That  sylvan  ways  of  summer  throng, 

And  flute-breathed,  through  the  sunlight  bear 

The  forest  pines'  divine  despair, 

Thou  sangest  with  thine  eyes. 

Not  with  thy  lips  thou  sang'st  to  me; 
But  from  the  deep  that  in  thee  lies 
More  music  haunted  than  the  sea : 
Like  some  wild  thing  a-swirl  on  wing 
That  is  ablaze  with  joy  of  Spring 
Thou  sangest  with  thine  eyes — 
Thine  April  eyes. 


3n  a  Portuguese  (SarDett       319 

INDIAN  SUMMER 

THE  lowering  skies  have  lost  their  sullen  gray, 
And  a  great  blaze  of  blue  is  o'er  them  thrown 
And  Autumn  smiles,  as  if  the  glory  flown 
Came  back  to  dazzle  in  its  olden  wav; 
And  wakened  bees,  no  longer  loath  to  stay, 
Through  the  warm  noontide's  mystic  tunes  intone 
And  haunt  the  rays,  down  from  the  sun's  heart 

grown, 

As  on  some  phantom  lute  beguiled  to  play. 
It  might  be  June  dreamed  back  to  earth  again, 
If  morning-glories'  pink-vined  bells  would  chime, 
Or  if  the  buttercups  held  golden  reign, 
For  a  late  oriole  stays  the  heavens  to  climb 
And  a  wild  rose  burns  red.     Autumn,  all  vain 
Thou  cheatest  thyself,  but  thou  canst  not  cheat 

Time! 


320      3n  a  Portuguese 


AN  APRIL  CHILD 

INTO  an  April  world  your  first-born  came, 

Stretching  his  arms  aloft,  as  if  to  bring 

Into  his  tiny  palms  the  soul  of  Spring 

And  grasp  the  light  with  which  it  was  aflame: 

Listen  !     So   soft  his   breathing,   it   might   shame 

Even  the  lightest  zephyrs,  as  they  ring 

Flower  bells  to  call  the  flowers  to  worshiping, 

Or  the  faint  sighs  that  opening  hyacinths  claim  — 

No  longer  will  infinitudes  surprise. 

Ocean  and  air  and  sky  will  seem  divine, 

And  in  the  coming  days,  when  new  suns  rise. 

Earth  will  be  halo'd,  and  within  its  shine, 

From  out  the  azure  deeps  of  those  young  eyes, 

Heaven  will  look  forth,  as  if  vouchsafing  sign. 


3n  a  Portuguese  <$arDen       321 

AN  AUGUST  SONG 

I  HAVE  no  heart  to  sing, 

For  swallows  outward  wing, 

And  deeper  shadows  on  the  grasses  fall ; 

And  whippoorwills   through  longer  twilight  call, 

And  summer's  wine  is  nearly  drained  withal, 

How  can  I,  can  I,  sing, 

Swallows  on  wing? 

The  hills  that  lie  in  dream, 
Still  bathed  in  summer's  gleam, 
Although  divine  with  sapphire,  seem  to  sigh; 
The  heavens  they  breast  look  infinitely  high 
The  fairest  flowers  that  decked  them,  have  gone 
by; 

How  can  I,  can  I,  sing, 

Swallows  on  wing? 

The  evening  star,  more  clear, 

Glitters  like  a  great  tear 

Wept  for  the  day — the  day  that  earlier  fleets; 

There  are  no  longer  the  impassioned  heats 

The  summer's  heart ;  ah,  me,  so  slow  its  beats, 

How  can  I,  can  I,  sing, 

Swallows  on  wing? 


322      Un  a  Portuguese 


YE  WHO  WOULD  IN  YOUR  MARBLES 
LIVE 

YE  who  would  in  your  marbles  live,  beware 
Lest  in  your  souls  some  hidden  flaws  ye  bear. 
For  statues  that  ye  dreamed  were  chiseled  fair 
Will  in  some  reckless  curve  the  truth  declare. 


Kn  a  Portugue0e  (fcarDen      323 


HE  painted   faces   fair,  supremely  fair, 
Faultless  in  drawing  and  with  coloring  fine, 
A  hint  of  Genius  in  every  line, 
But  never  one  that  could  an  aureole  wear ; 
Circes,  and  women  with  their  bosoms  bare, 
And  sea  nymphs  rising  from  the  foamy  brine 
With  wanton  locks  outflung,  as  to  entwine 
Around  men's  souls  and,  strangling,  drown  them 

there : 

— O  Art,  transcendent  Art,  if  in  thy  guise 
The  senses  can  be  moved,  how  canst  thou  keep 
Thy  holy  garments  from  the  grime  that  flies 
Thickening   earth's    air? — Go   and   hurl    fathoms 

deep 

Brushes  that  cannot  paint  in  women's  eyes 
Beatitudes  that  to  the  saints  might  leap ! 


324       3n  a  Portuguese  <$arDgn 

A   PORTRAIT  OF   A   FRIEND 
AFTER  MANY  SITTINGS 

ODD  as  a  species,  not  for  oddness'  sake, 

And  never  pleased  the  common  ground  to  take ; 

Disdaining  all  conventional  display, 

And  full  of  moods,  as  is  an  April  day ; 

Frowning  and  pensive,  smiling  and  disturbed, 

With  a  strong  will,  that  never  has  been  curbed : 

Yet   as   the  April's   splendor 

Is  always  tender, 

The  little  children  linger  at  his  knee, 
Because  he,  too,  a  little  child  can  be: 

Standing  apart 

As  one  distinct ;  kissing  the  lips  of  Art 
And  yet,  because  in  harmony  most  rare 
With  Nature,  owning  Nature  is  more  fair ; 
Ennobling  life  with  finest  sentiment, 
And  looking  in  the  eyes  of  Truth,  content. 
As  some  grand  painting,  that,  in  sunlight  hung 
Discloses   to  the  world,  with   subtile  power, 
The  essence  of  some  dreamer's  songs  unsung, 
The  perfume  of  some  soul's  immortal  flower : 

So  standing  thus  apart, 
As  one  uplifted  to  the  eternal  heart, 
Man's  possible,  with  God's  doth  seem  to  blend — 

No  limit  and  no  end. 


a  Portuguese  ®arDen 


THE  LADY  TO  THE.  SCULPTOR 

PERCHANCE  when  you  have  put  my  soul  to  test 
And  smiling  think  its  tortuous  ways  you  know, 
Some  splendid  moment  of  desire  may  grow 
Swift  lifted  to  my  face  from  out  my  breast, 
Into  a  look  where  some  high  dream  expressed 
Shall  shine  out  clear.     Then  ere  the  moment  go 
Sheath  it  in  marble  ;  fix  the  rapture  so 
That  they  who  see,  shall  know  me  at  my  best. 
But  could  you  when  another  mood  is  mine 
And  an  insurgent  grief  held  me  in  sway 
Within  the  marble's  frozen  calm  confine 
The  swelling  flood  and  bid  it  therein  stay? 
Would  not  your  genius,  appalled,  divine 
The  marble  pain  would  break  itself  away? 


326      3n  a  Portuguese  ®att»en 

TO  THE  SOUTH  WIND 

ETHEHEAL  minstrel  wandering  through  May, 

Spirit,  whose  breath  is  wafted  far  and  nigh, 

Thou  art  an  echo  of  the  inviolate  sigh 

Creation  drew,  on  its  perfected  way ; 

Winged  with  the  heat,  thou  callest  on  the  day, 

With  bloom's  omnipotence,  to  make  reply, 

And  as  the  steed  of  swallows,  racest  by 

Lest  the  pursuing  Summer  should  gain  sway ; — 

As  Spring's   ambassador,  thou  canst  unfold 

Secrets  of  eagles'  dwellings  and  of  vales ; 

And    trail'st   through    grasses,    all   a-quiver   with 

gold, 

In  murmured  transport  as  of  nightingales ; 
Span'st  earth  and  sea,  but  canst  not,  canst  not 

hold 
Yon  hurrying  cloud  that  past  the  sunset  sails. 


a  portugue0e 


TO  THE  WEST  WINDS 

DIVINE  Apostle  of  the  Summer,  blow  ; 

The  rose  is  waiting  thee,  and  in  the  grass 

Thy  purple  lovers  long  for  thee  to  pass 

And  thine  old  rapture,  at  their  presence,  show  ; 

I  see  thee,  coming  o'er  the  hilltops,  slow, 

As  listening  to  the  oriole's  morning  mass, 

Nor  yet  hast  whispered  to  the  vales,  alas, 

The  forest  secrets  that  they  fain  would  know  :  — 

Haunt  sylvan  dells,  and,  from  the  exiles  there, 

Bring  the  wild  odors  on  thy  swiftening  way, 

And  into  reckless,  golden  riot,  bear 

The  calm,  unwavering  sunshine  of  the   day  ; 

Thou,  who  hast  power  to  kiss  the  Summer  fair, 

Prove  Sorcerer,  and  kiss  one  that  will  stay. 


328       3ht  a  Portuguese  <$atDen 

AN  OLD  COMPANION 

TRANSCENDENT  South  Wind,  hast  thou  come  to 

bring 

A  message  from  that  radiant  long  ago? 
Bring  then  the  old  dreams  back,  that  I  may  know 
Thou  art,  in  truth,  the  evangel  of  the  spring; 
Loosen  the  mists  that  round  the  mornings  cling, 
And  to  the  summer  drawing  nigh  breathe  low 
That  o'er  its  unclosed  roses  thou  wilt  blow 
And  fan  to  gorgeous  bloom  with  thy  warm  wing. 
Thou  art  unchanged,  chasing  in  thy  wild  play 
The  sun's  resplendent  locks  that  flood  the  sky 
And  stream,  untamed,  across  the  fields  of  May ; 
And  I  wait  breathless,  as  thou  wanderest  by, 
The  recognition,  who  couldst  once  convey 
The  rapture  of  an  Eden,  in  a  sigh. 


3n  a  Portuguese  ®atDen       329 

A  SUMMER  SONG 

A  MEADOW  lark  singing — the  flash  of  a  wing, 
A   vista  through  treetops  of  measureless  blue, 
A    golden    meshed    gossamer    caught    from    the 

Spring, 
Summer,  sunflooded — and  you. 

The  glint  of  a  river— hills  stretching  in  line, 
Soft  grasses,  wind  wafted,  a-shine  with  the  dew, 
A  tangle  of  blossoms  on  branch  and  on  vine, 
Summer,  flower-breasted — and  you. 

White    clouds    sailing    outward — the    Sun    at    its 

noon, 
The      heavens      all      a-quiver — June      blazoning 

through, 

My  soul — like  a  wild  bird,  in  swirl  of  a  tune, 
Summer — the  tune's  swirl — and  you. 


330      3n  a  Portuguese  harden 

ONE  SUMMER  DAY 

O  SUMMER  day, 

Thou  canst  not,  canst  not  go  away, 
For  memory  of  thy  birds  and  flowers, 
And  thine  intoxicating  hours, 
Vivid  within  my  heart  will  stay : 
The  winds,  that  clover  scented,  blow 
The  marguerites  with  hearts  aglow, 
All,  all,  will  stay; 
Thou  canst  not,  canst  not  go  away, 
O  perfect  summer  day! 

O  summer  day, 

Thou  canst  not,  canst  not  go  away, 
Forever  in  the  sunshine  drowned, 
Forever  with  the  roses  crowned, 
Thou  canst  hold  even  Time  at  bay. 
The  transfixed  noon  with  light  ablaze, 
The  horizon  lined  with  tender  haze: 

All,  all,  will  stay ; 

Thou  canst  not,  canst  not  go  away, 

O  perfect  summer  day! 


3n  a  Portuguese  <£arDen       331 

TO  A  DEAD  DAY 

DEAR  day,  whose  skies  arch  still  celestial  blue, 
Peerless,  enchanting  and  mysterious  day, 
Thy  roses  through  the  eternal  years  will  stay 
Forever  perfumed  and  forever  new; 
Thy  nightingales  that  singing  skyward  flew; 
Thy  sun's  gold  heart  that  scattered  ray  on  ray, 
As  if  with  light  the  grasses  to  downweigh; 
Nothing  will  change,  nothing  the  joy  undo. 
Out  of  his  fairest  heaven  God  fashioned  thee, 
O  thou  one  perfect  day !  and  well  I  know, 
Though  there  shall  bloom  no  more  such  flowers 

for  me, 
Though  never  more  such  haunting  strains   shall 

flow 

From  other  nightingales,  I  hold  the  key 
To  that  vast  door  through  which  Love's  feet  may 


332      an  a  Ipottuguege  ®acDen 

TO  A   BRONZE  SEA-GULL 

OH,  sea-gull  metal  bound ! 

Breathe  in  your  sculptured  calm  that  "death  is 

sweet," 

For  as  perchance  your  wet  wings  skyward  beat, 
In  life's  supremest  moment  you  were  crowned 
Through    dazzling    glimpse    of    heaven,    with    si 
lence  most  profound. 

Haply  within  your  breast, 
The  passion  of  unresting  waves  is  pent ; 
And   as   from  blinding  spray  you  whirling  went, 
Your  majesty  of  daring  was  expressed 
(Reaching  too   high   for   motion)    in   this   nobler 
rest. 

Ah !  glimpse  of  heaven  once  won 

Triumph  of  silence,  who  would  dare  gainsay? 

If  our  own  fetters  could  be  torn  away 

The  pent  up,  mad'ning  pain  of  life  were  done 

And  ecstasy  of  death  would  flood  us  like  the  sun. 


Kit  a  Portuguese  (gatPen 


I  CANNOT  SAY 

I  CANNOT  say,  oh,  Life,  I  am  content, 
Although  the  world  is  so  supremely  fair, 
Yet  when  I  fain  would  soar,  the  mists  ensnare, 
And  ere  I  reach  the  Sun,  my  strength  is  spent  ; 
Through  all  its  labyrinths  I  have  been  sent, 
And  in  its  tortuous  paths  have  reached  to  where 
I  know  there  is  no  gauge  to  Love's  despair, 
And  from  its  deep  abysses  no  ascent. 
What   wantest    thou,     my     Soul?     Since    I   have 

spanned 

All  human  agonies,  what  more  needst  dread? 
Art  thou  so  dull  thou  canst  not  understand 
Because,  unhealed,  my  wounds  have  constant 

bled, 
Caged,    fettered,   songless,   by   hope's   wings   un- 

fanned, 
I  want,  forevermore,  I  want  —  my  dead. 


jfn  a  Portuguese  <£>artien 

And  yet,  poor  craven  soul,  wouldst  call  thy  dead 
Chance    from    the    Apocalypse?      Hush    yester 
night 

When  the  great  sun  dropt  down  its  dying  light 
And  bathed  the  world  in  jasper  and  in  red, 
Ashamed  of  puerile  tears  and  doubts,  I  said, 
If   such   earth's   glory  why  shouldst  grudge   the 

sight 

To  thy  beloved  of  yonder  Heaven,  alight 
With  the  effulgence  streaming  round  God's  head? 
Ah !  well  for  me,  that  I  can  nought  decide, 
We  shall  be  left  no  choice,  my  soul  and  I, 
We  bruise  our  wings,  yet  cannot  override 
The  bars  that  separate  the  earth  and  sky, 
And  I — I  shall  not  know,  till  I  have  died 
How  far,  O  soul,  and  whither,  thou  shalt  fly. 


3n  a  Portuguese  ®arDen       335 

EASTWARD 

EASTWAHD  I  turned  mine  eyes,  though  hope  was 

done, 
From  whence  the  Springtime  came,  new  hope  to 

bear, 

And  saw  a  vision,  than  the  Spring  more  fair, 
Float  outward  past  the  sun. 

Adrift  upon  the  sky  the  pale  moon  lay, 
As  silver  witness  signaling  the  night, 
Yet  still  with  soul  transfigured  by  the  light 
Fearless  she  went  her  way. 

O  vision  that  to-day  the  dawn  enspheres, 
To-morrow,  if  beyond  the  hyacinths  blown. 
If  past  the  sun  of  Spring;  the  night  winds  moan, 
Mine,  mine  be  all  the  tears. 


336      Jn  a  Portugue0e 


TO  THE  RISING  SUN 

THOU  ageless  Sun,  uprising  warm  and  clear, 
As  set  to  watch  from  out  the  heavens  above 

Take  hence  thy  light,  it  will  not  reach  me  here, 
I  see  —  but  my  dead  Love. 

Although  thou  hurl'st  thy  million  rays  below, 
Death   has  eluded  even  thy  sharpest  dart  ; 

Withdraw  thy  weapons,  thou  hast  missed  the  foe 
To  plunge  them  in  my  heart. 

Thou  ageless  Sun,  thou  soulless  golden  blot, 
With    thy    full    splendor,    from    the    heavens 
above, 

Thou  strik'st  the  coffin  lid  —  I  see  thee  not  ; 
I  see  —  but  mv  dead  Love. 


3n  a  Portuguese  (gatPen       337 

TO  THE  ECLIPSED  MOON 

THICK  veiled,  and  blushing  like  a  bride,  O  Moon, 

Superbly  sailing  o'er  the  dusky  sky, 

Hast  seen  a  fiery  planet  drawing  nigh 

That  lent  thee  glow,  red  as  the  sun  at  noon? 

Or  hast  thou  in  the  sudden  joy  of  June 

With  the  sweet  rapture  of  its  kiss  grown  shy, 

Hidden  thine  o'erwhelming  ecstasy 

In  a  strange  shadow  that  will  pass  thee  soon? 

Divine  pale  moon,  the  passing  shadow  o'er, 
With  thy  transcendent  silver  all  agleam, 
Thou  goest  on  thy  way  supreme  once  more 
And   flood'st    the   sky,    that     shining    makes   the 

seem 

More  beautiful   than   e'en   thou  wert   before — 
Wakened  from  mystery  of  a  wondrous  dream. 


338      3n  a  Portuguese  <0arDen 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  LOVE 

WITH  a  transcendent  smile  Love  came  to  me 
And  held  me,  willing  captive,  through  the  days, 
Leading  o'er  flowering  fields  and  sylvan  ways, 
That  I  his  infinite  domain  might  see: 
Innumerable  birds,  wild-winged  and  free, 
Swept,  singing,  eastward  past  the  sun's  full  rays, 
And  jonquils  with  their  golden  hearts  ablaze 
Flashed,  with  the  joy  of  Spring,  their  joy  to  me: 
On,  on  and  on,  I  wandered,  at  Love's  side, 
Until  far  out  beyond  the  horizon's  verge, 
The  darkness  dropped — the  sun  itself  had  died ; 
And  losing  foothold,  I  was  gulfed  in  surge 
Of    grief's    o'erwhelming    sea.      "Love,    Love,"    I 

cried, 
"Hast   thou     betrayed     with     rapture,     thus     to 

scourge?" 


a     ortuue0e  <DarDen       339 


Love  drew  me  to  the  shore,  and  though  the  night 
Was  lingering  yet,  and  though  I  still  heard  moan 
Of  that  insurgent  sea,  the  heavens  had  grown 
Lambent,  as  with  a  planet's  soul  in  sight. 
"O    Love,"  I  whispered,    "though  I   swoon  with 

might 

Of  swelling  tides,  thou  the  same  tides  hast  known  ; 
Which  path  thou  choosest  I  will  make  mine  own 
Lead  on,  thou  canst  the  sun  that  died  relight." 
Behold,  I  have  kept  faith  with  Love,  although 
O'er  countless  Calvarys  my  fe€t  have  passed, 
For  always  on  their  up-reared  crosses,  glow, 
Of  his  seraphic  presence  has  been  cast  ; 
And  mightier  than  grief's  awful  undertow 
Love  has  uplifted,  yea,  and  held  me  fast. 


a  Portuguese  <$arDen 


IN  BLOSSOM  TIME 

IT  is  the  carnival  of  spring,  the  golden  time 

That  Aphrodite  held  most  fair  ; 

When  leaves  transparent  glisten  in  the  air 

And  scents  of  wild  flowers  through  the  sunshine 

climb. 

When  hilltops  catch  the  dazzling  light 
And  spill  it  broadcast  ;  where  like  yellow  suns 
The   dandelions    shine  ;    and    o'er   the    soft    grass 

runs, 
Kissed  by  a  zephyr  lightly  wandering  by, 

A  tremor  exquisite. 

And  meadow  larks,  with  wings  awhirl  on  high, 
Sing  choruses  exultant  as  they  fly, 
And  nothing,  nothing  is  amiss  in  all  the  earth  or 

sky. 


3n  a  Portuguese  ®art»en       341 

The  blossoms,  with  which  trees  are  crowned, 

With  their  insistent  blushes,  film  the  air — 

And  through  the   rose  mist   gleaming  here   and 

there 

A  loosened  petal  flutters  to  the  ground. 
The  swallows,  busy  building,  dart  away, 
With  prescient  knowledge  happy  twittering ; 
And  milk-white  in  the  pastures  young  lambs  play. 
Chasing   the   shimmering   shadows,    light     clouds 

fling, 

The  overflowing  brooks  run  sparkling  by, 
Half-wakened  bees  on  lilac  bosoms  lie, 
And  nothing,  nothing  is  amiss  in  all  the  earth  or 

sky. 


3*2      Jn  a  Portuguese  ®arDen 

Beauty   reigns   absolute:     The   fir  trees   shine, 
Tipped  with  pale  emerald,  and  pines  line  upon 

line; 

Caught  in  the  glow, 

Repeat  their  litanies,  in  whispers  hushed  and  low ; 
The  violet  horizon  in  the  distance  dips, 
And   a    sky-raptured  lark   from   out   the   chorus 

slips, 

Plunging  the  ether,  and  is  lost  to  sight. 
The  carnival  is  at  its  height, 
And,  lo! 

I  know,  I  know 
By  nature's  power   to   recreate,   whose  witnesses 

crowd  nigh; 
By  all  the  blossoms  at  my  feet,  and  meadow  larks 

on  high, 
By  a  new  ecstasy  of  hope  that  will  not  let  me 

sigh, 
That  nothing,  nothing  is  amiss  in  all  the  earth  or 

sky. 


In  a  Portuguese  (garden       343 

THE  SONGS  OF  THE  SILENCES 

i 
FROM  the  deeps  of  burning  color  o'er  the  skies  of 

morning  spread 
I  have  heard  the  mighty  transport  of  the  sun  that 

leaps  o'erhead, 
And    across    cerulean   spaces,   that   the   noontide 

splendors  span, 
Caught     the     tunes,     Chance,     rapturing     ages, 

echoed  from  the  reeds  of  Pan. 

i 
i 

Through  the  purple  hush  of  twilight  that  across 
the  ether  springs 

I  have  heard  the  mystic  wafting  of  the  fireflies' 
glittering  wings, 

And  enrhythming  the  darkness,  as  a  lark's  song 
rhythms  light. 

Heard  the  golden  scintillations  of  the  stars  em 
blazoning  night. 


344      3(n  a  Portugueae  <£>ar&en 

From  immeasurable  distance  of  a  full  moon  calm 
and  white 

I  have  heard  th'  insistent  glory  dropping  from 
its  silver  height, 

And  from  out  the  forest  pine  trees  with  their 
ecstasy  aflare 

Heard  asolian  intimations  like  a  flute's  divine  de 
spair. 

Ah,  no  more  earth's  limitations  can  my  daring 
soul  restrain ; 

Nevermore,  who  have  seen  summits,  will  I  grovel 
on  the  plain, 

For,  in  sublimated  moments,  by  th'  Eternal  swept 
along, 

I  have  heard  the  heart  of  silence,  beating  suffo 
cate  with  song. 


Jin  a  Portuguese  harden       345 

THE  SILENCE  OF  GENIUS 

WITHIN  her  being  leaped  a  sacred  fire  ; 

She   dreamed   the   dreams   that     to     immortals 

come, 
And  soared  to  language  than  of  music  higher, 

Although  her  lips  were  dumb. 

She  could  interpret  the  Auroral  lights, 
And  the  Sea's  everlasting  undertone, 

And  made  the  solitudes  of  far-off  heights 
Companions  of  her  own ! 

The  flowers  communed  with  her ;  the  west  winds 
sent 

Divine  salutes  to  her  across  the  grass, 
And  with  her  listening  ear  to  forests  bent 

She  heard  the  Eternal  pass. 

The  glory  of  the  Sun  within  her  dwelt ; 

The  vast  of  planets  she  could  overcome, 
And  all  that  was,  and  is,  and  shall  be,  felt, 

Although  her  lips   were   dumb. 


3*6      3n  a  Portuguese  (garden 

TO  SAPPHO 

BELOVED  of  gods  and  by  the  gods  inspired 
Who  from  thy  land's  intoxicate  ether,  drew 
Immeasurable  music,  till  it  grew 
Articulate  to  Heaven,  Art  still  is  fired, 
Listening  thy  lyrics  as  they  go  untired 
The  echoing  years  reverberating  through, 
With  longing  in  some  strain  to  find  the  clew 
To  Arts  supernal,  but  through  gods  acquired. 
What  golden  passion  in  thy  soul  became 
The  voice  divine,  not  mine  to  hold  the  key, 
But  chance  some  mighty  love's  volcanic  flame 
Sprang   skyward   into   deathless   ecstasy — 
Thy  Lesbian  skies  are  strange,  yet  still  I  claim 
What  songs  thou  sang'st  to  Greece,  thou  sang'st 
to  me. 


a  Portuguese  (gatDen 


MIDNIGHT 

OH,  for  some  way 

To   keep   these   dimly  burning  thoughts   of  mine 
From  their  strange  flickering,  till,  day  by  day 
Grown  to  pure  light,  they  leap  to  flame  divine, 
And  from  new  deeps  I  may  find  words  to  tell 
Of  suns  ineffable,  unreached,  that  in  me  dwell. 

Oh,  for  a  lyre 

Like  that  of  old,  from  which  the  Lesbian  drew 
The  golden  blaze  of  an  ecstatic  fire 
That  into  hymn  to  Aphrodite  grew 
That,  still  undrowned,  floats  over  Grecian  seas 
And  echoes,  changeless  sweet,  in  wind-kissed  olive 
trees. 

Oh,  for  some  sign 
That,    monstrous    still    with   clay,    my    soul   may 

grow 

Sublime,  exalted  as  with  Thracian  wine, 
To  such  fair  shaping  all  its  scars  will  go  ; 
That  some  time  o'er  death's  deathless  seas  will 

float 
From   out  my  sun-emblazoned  heart   a  deathless 

note. 


A   CAGED   BIRD   SINGING 

THOU    yellow    plumaged    bird,    that    sweet    and 

strong 

Singest  imprisoned  as  if  thou  wert  free, 
I  would  some  way  thou  couldst  impart  to  me 
The  golden  secret  of  thy  happy  song. 
Perchance  in  thine  unruffled  breast  may  throng 
Memories  of  blossoms  grown  on  some  far  tree 
That  a  perpetual  summer  make  for  thee, 
Enflooding  thee  with  sunshine  all  day  long: 
Glad  bird  sing  on,  I  would  be  glad  the  same, 
But  mockery  of  thy  summer  dream  have  met ; 
Memories  may  be  thy  solace — I  but  aim 
With  my  whole  soul's  insistence  to  forget — 
So  fair  the  Elysian  fields  with  flowers  aflame 
When  I  became  a  captive  to  regret. 


a  Portiigue0e  <£>arDen      349 


THE  GIFT  OF  A  WILD  FLOWER 

DID  you  pluck  the  flower  for  the  flower 
In  the  grace  of  an  exquisite  hour, 
When  your  soul  soared  lofty  and  free 
To  the  Soul  you  meant  it  should  be? 
In  the  grace  of  that  exquisite  hour. 
Did  you  pluck  the  flower  for  the  flower, 
Or  did  you  pluck  it  for  me? 

Did  you  pluck  it  because  it  was  white, 
In  a  dream  of  impassioned  delight, 
Or  because  in  its  heart  you  could  see 
What  a  sublimate  summer  might  be? 
In  the  grace  of  that  exquisite  hour 
Did  you  pluck  the  flower  for  the  flower, 
Or  did  you  pluck  it  for  me? 

If  you  plucked  it,  the  shy,  white  thing, 
With  a  heart  like  a  bluebird's  in  spring, 
What  matter  whichever  it  be? 
It  is  part  of  the  spring's  decree. 
In  the  grace  of  that  exquisite  hour 
You  gave  two  souls  to  the  flower, 
And  one  —  one  floated  to  me. 


350      Kn  a  Portuguese 


IN  A  FOREST 

BETWEEN  the  somber  trees,  the  yellow  light 
Drifts  into  yellow  streams,  whose  ripples  go 
Drenching  the  ground  where  the  wild  hyacinths 

blow 

Until  the  deepest  hidden  dells  grow  bright  ; 
The    blue    heavens,    here    and    there,    break    into 

sight 

Through  leaf-fringed  openings,  while  orioles   go 
And  to  the  sun  their  glittering  bosoms  show, 
Cleaving  the  noon-day  silence  in  their  flight  ; 
An  unseen  presence  seems  to  haunt  the  shade, 
Where  purple  deeps,  to  deeps  more  purple  cling, 
Whose    voice,    mysterious    borne    through    every 

glade, 

Mysterious   melodies   is   murmuring, 
As  if  JSolian  tunes  that  once  Pan  played 
Were  set  afloat  again  by  breath  of  Spring. 


351 


HOW  I  LEARNED  TO  SING 

A  CHILD,  first  thing  I  knew 

Strange  visions  came  and  went  and  lifted  me 

Into  a  deep  unresting  ecstasy, 

Where  with  each  thought  that  grew 

I  felt  my  soul  escape.      Such  little  thing 

To  cleave  the  ether  like  a  bird  on  wing, 

It  seemed  to  me,  and  so,  I  learned  to  sing. 

I  searched  the  summer  sky, 

Mysterious  voices  murmured  in  the  air, 

My  heart  the  splendid  music  seemed  to  share 

And  made  divine  reply. 

I  heard  strange  measures  through  the  azure  ring, 

I  thought  it  was  the  sun's  heart  answering, 

I  listened  all  intent,  and  so,  I  learned  to  sing. 

Later,  life  mastered  me, 

I  kissed  the  frozen  lips  of  mute  despair, 

Yet  still  the  visions  stayed,  as  if  to  bear 

My  shattered  harmony 

Up     grief's     whole     scale.     Love's     joy    became 

Love's  sting, 
Then  knowledge  broke  my  heart,  and  so  I  learned 

to  sing. 


352      3n  a  Portuguese  aartien 

I  KNOW  NOT  WHY 

I  KNOW  not  why 

Some    voices    thrill     me    so.      Touching    some 

palms 
Sudden  my  pulses  passionately  fly 

And  I  forget  the  calms 
Of  false  content,  and  want  to  do,  and  be 

Something   divine   that     they     may   give   their 
hearts  to  me. 

A  subtle  pain 

Troubles  my  soul  to  infinite  desire, 
Some  chord  mysterious  that  has  silent  lain 

Flashes  to  fire, 
And  mornings  grow  more  bright  and  moons  more 

fair, 

I  climb  love's  mystic  height  through  music's  sweet 
despair. 

Ah,  could  I  keep 

My  soul  to  heights  I  dream,  then  I  might  know 
What  gods  have  known  and  be  attuned  to  sweep 

Of  planets  as  they  flow, 
And  in  sublime  discovery  of  their  swing 

From  love's  new  altitude  to  love's  new  knowl 
edge  spring. 


3n  a  Portuguese  (harden       353 


TO 


OXCE  more,  only  once  more,  if  I  could  be 
Flooded  with  joy  that  shines  in  thy  young  eyes, 
And  turned  from  weeping,  let  my  soul  baptize 

In  its  unfathomed  sea, 
How  passing  sweet,  Love's  shining  shores  relit, 

To  drown  in  it. 

So  thought  I  yesterday,  in  craven  mood ; 
To-day   I   can  my   craven  thoughts   forego, 
And  watch  thy  smiling  face,  who  love  thee  so, 

Its  rapture  understood, 

Nor  grudge  the  rose  blooms  strewn  thy  pathway 
o'er, 

But  fling  one  more. 

Thou  art  so  fair,  the  rain  will  pass  thee  by ; 
Over  thy  path,  I  dream,  the  arc  will  shine; 
Lift  up  thy  happy  eyes  and  mark  the  sign, 

Thou  wert  not  born  to  sigh. 
Go,  nor  need'st  shun  what  shall  be  thine  to  meet ; 

Go — Life  is  sweet. 


jn  a  Portuguese 


THE  VIRGIN  TO  HER  SON 

ON  CHRISTMAS  DAY 

I  LIFT  mine  eyes,  O  Christ,  to  thee, 

To  thee,  my  splendor  browed, 
Who  with  Jehovah,  holdest  heaven  in     sway, 

Yet  smilest  unto  me. 
Around  thee  multitudes  of  angels  crowd, 

Flinging  their  palms  down  in  thy  way, 
And  singing  thee,  upon  this  festal  day, 

Their  loftiest  songs  of  praise. 
And  yet  I  held  thee,  when  I  knew  earth's  ways, 
A  child,  all  warm  upon  my  breast, 
And  hushed  thee,  star  watched,  into  rest 

My  sinless  one  ! 

Now  thou  mak'st  luminous  heaven's  uttermost 
height 

Winged  with  the  glory  of  eternal  light  — 
My  shining  one  ! 

Thou  art  incarnate  Love  —  is  it  to  show 
Unto  all  heaven  thy  love  thou  smilest  so, 

My  Lord,  my  Christ,  my  King,  my  Son? 


an  a  Portuguese  (garden       355 

I  draw  me  nearer  unto  thee, 

To  thee,  my  heavenly  eyed, 
For  to  the  place  kept  vacant  at  thy  side, 
With  shimmer  of  thy  wings,  thou  beckonest  me. 
I  am  thy  mother,  and  I  gave  the  name 

That  all  thy  hosts  proclaim, 
And  cherubim  and  seraphim  make  way, 
That  I  may  touch  thy  garment's  hem  to-day. 
I  knew  thee  with  thy  wounds,  thy  foes, 
Thy  human  woes, 

My  sinless  one. 
Now    thou    mak'st    luminous    heaven's    uttermost 

height 
Winged  with  the  glory  of  eternal  light, 

My  shining  one ! 

Thou  art  incarnate  Love — Is  it  to  show 
Unto  all  heaven  thy  love,  thou  smilest  so. 

My  Lord,  my  Christ,  my  King,  my  Son? 


TO  A  YOUNG  POET 

I  KNOW  thee  not,  and  yet  I  know 
Thou  art  a  minstrel,  holding  flute 
That   deep-breathed,   thou   hast   learned   to   blow 
And  in  thy  silver  songs'  pursuit 
Hast  wakened  echoes  high  and  low 
That  else  were  mute. 

I  only  know  with  splendid  might 
The  golden  noted  measures  fall, 
Flaming  their  way  like  liquid  light, 
From  out  thy  heart,  to  hearts  of  all, 
And  that  thou  canst  on  music's  height 
The  world  enthrall. 


an  a  Portuguese  (garDen       357 

THE  WAY  TO  ARCADY 

NAY,  tell  me  not  the  way,  I  said, 

To  Arcady — to  Arcady, 
For  I  have  learned  its  way  to  tread ; 
Not  always  with  the  blue  o'erhead, 
For  oftentimes  the  path  has  led 
To  wild  flowers  blooming  o'er  the  dead ; 
Then,  smitten  with  scent  of  violets, 
Swept  into  singing  with  regrets, 
If  singing,  I  could  pain  defy, 
I  know  the  way  to  Arcady — 

To  Arcady. 

The  way  is  full  of  thorns,  I  said, 

To   Arcady — to   Arcady, 
Beneath  the  heavens  whose  sun  has  fled ; 
I  wear  their  crown  upon  my  head, 
Yet  if  my  soul  with  wings  upsped 
Sails  to  the  singing  overspread, 
I  am  content,  though  through  despair 
I  plunge,  to  reach  the  rapture  there ; 
Although  engulfed  in  tears  I  lie, 
I  weep,  on  shores  of  Arcady — 

Of  Arcady. 


358      Jn  a  Portuguese  <$ac&en 

Nay,  tell  me  not  the  way,  I  said, 

To  Arcady — to  Arcady, 
For  I  have  learned  its  way  to  tread ; 
I  wear  Love's  crown  upon  my  head, 
I  am  content,  though  brows  have  bled, 
Though  tears  must  evermore  be  shed : 
I  know  the  ecstasy  divine, 
Born  of  the  pang — for  Love  is  mine, 
If  Love  can  so  Love's  pangs  defy 
I  know  the  way  to  Arcady — 
To  Arcady. 


3n  a  Portuguese  (gacDett       359 

AT  THE  BIER 

RED  on  your  bosom  you  wear 

Rose  that  at  sunrise  blew, 
Sleeping  all  unaware ; 

Beloved,  I  whisper  to  you 

This  is  my  soul's  adieu. 

Dear,  when  the  roses  first  came, 

One,  breathed  my  passion  to  you ; 
This,  with  its  petals  aflame, 

As  if  drenched  with  my  heart's  blood  through, 
This,  is  my  soul's  adieu. 

Heard  you  the  angels'  wings  beat 
Down  through  the  fathomless  blue? 

You  have  o'ertaken  them,  sweet ! 
Angel,  that  sunrise  updrew, 

This  is  my  soul's  adieu. 


360      jfn  a  Portuguese  Garden 
A  VISION 

LURED  by  mysterious  voices  clear  and  strong, 
I  sailed  the  ether  upon  wings  of  fire, 
Holding  intoxicate  with  flight,  life's  lyre 
Swelling   and   vibrant  with   imprisoned   song ; 
I    smote    the    strings    that    dazzling    seemed    to 

throng 

Down  from  the  sun  whose  glory  drew  me  nigher, 
And  soundless  raptures  answering  my  desire 
Into  a  vivid  rainbow  swept  along: — 

0  soul,   rejoice!   for  in  that   arc   sublime 
That    ran    'cross    heaven    like   lightning,    golden, 

fleet, 

The  rhythmic  silences  broke  into  chime 
Than  Phrygian  music  more  divinely  sweet : 
And  'bove  life's  lyre,  above  the  pulse  of  Time, 

1  heard  the  pulse  of  the  Eternal  beat. 


3n  a  portiigiie0e  (SarDett      SGI 


SUNSET  that  lingerest,  blood  red  in  the  West, 
I  am  so  shadow  haunted,  thou  so  bright, 
From  the  full  blaze  of  thine  exceeding  light 
I  turn  me  for  a  while,  mine  eyes  to  rest, 
Fade,    fade,    and    flaunt    no    more    thy    blazoned 

breast ; 

And  let  me  be  companioned  with  the  night 
And  its  calm  stars,  that  as  they  steal  to  sight 
May  bring  me  solace  in  some  way  unguessed; — 
Fade  swiftly,  and  shut  out  the  world  from  me ; 
Thy  light  like  a  sharp  sword  above  me  gleams, 
For  in  the  desert  of  my  soul  I  see 
Shining  above  me,  mirrored  by  thy  beams, 
From  its  vast  ruin  borne  at  thy  decree, 
Mirage  of  buried  city  of  my  dreams. 


362      3n  a  Portuguese 


THANKSGIVING 

LORD  God  of  Hosts,  we  set  this  day  aside 
In  which  to  thank  Thee,  for  the  wondrous  ways 
Thou  hast  vouchsafed  fulfillment  to  the  days, 
And  the  lands'  golden  harvests  multiplied, 
For  peace  and  progress  reigning  side  by  side  ; 
For  truth's  increase,  that  civic  movement  sways  ; 
And  for  the  light  of  Christ,  that  changeless  stays 
Starring  the  ages,  race  on  race,  to  guide: 
We  thank  Thee,  Oh,  Thou  Giver  Infinite, 
For  the  great  boon  of  life  —  yes,  and  for  death  — 
The  splendid  pause,  ere  an  unfettered  flight 
For  Love  that  the  whole  world  encompasseth  ; 
And  for  the  promised  Heaven,  whose  uttermost 

height 
Is  luminous  with  lightning  of  Thy  breath. 


3n  a  pottugue0e  Garden       363 

TO  PAIN 

TIGER,  hot-breathed,  that  clutchest  at  my  heart, 
And  cruel  watchest  bleeding  drops  that  fall, 
Loose  me,  and  let  my  soul  escape  the  thrall 
That  keeps  me  from  my  pangless  love  apart ; 
Loose  me,  and   sleep   awhile ;  why  shouldst   thou 

start, 

And  with  the  threatening  of  thy  fangs   appall? 
My  dead  is  dead  beyond  the  reach  withal 
Of  wounds  like  mine,  to  fester  and  to  smart. 
Even  in  thy  grasp,  it  eases  me  to  know 
Thou  canst  not  longer  my  beloved  affright, 
And  that  thou,  fierce-eyed,  will  not  dare  to  go 
Where  he  lies  beautiful   and  still  and  white. 
Thou  art  Death's  ally,  Love's  relentless  foe, 
How  cope  with  thee  who  murderer  art  by  right? 


36*      an  a  Portuguese  <$atDen 

TO  DEATH 

BREAK  swift  the  chain  that  binds  me  to  the  rack, 
O  thou  divine  sweet  Death,  and  let  me  be 
From  the  vast  agony  of  Life  set  free ; 
Freeze  down  my  eyelids,  that  on  desert  track, 
My  feet  late  trod,  I  can  no  more  look  back, 
And  unto  me,  in  hushed  benignity 
The  gift,  thou  gavest  my  beloved,  decree, 
Who  went  his  way,  beyond  the  zodiac ; 
And  yet  I  have  so  loved  the  flowerlit  ways, 
And  swathed  in  purple  all  the  peaks  in  sight 
Companioned  by  them,  through  the  lonely  days, 
Dear  Death,  ere  thou  shalt  bear  me  into  night, 
Once  more,  to  them  I  fain  mine  eyes  would  raise, 
That  I  might  take  with  me  their  heavenly  light. 


3n  a  Portuguese  @arDen       365 

THE  DECREE  OF  LOVE 

LOVE  drank  the  dregs  of  a  consummate  woe 

And  grew  intoxicate  with  its  despair. 

Innumerable  discords   filled  the  air, 

And  Music  fled  and  knew  not  where  to  go. 

"O   Angel   of  the  Past,"  Love  whispered,  "show 

The  Demon  of  the  Present  what  a  snare 

Is  set  for  jubilant  feet,  what  masks  men  wear 

Who  seem  to  live,  and  yet  but  grave-damps  know. 

Lo !  shattered  at  my  feet,  empty  of  wine, 

Life's  goblet  lies ;  yea,  empty  even  of  lees. 

And  yet  what  revelations  have  been  mine, 

What    sunlit    calms,   what   thunder-riven    seas ! 

It  is  not  love,"  Love  said,  "that  is  divine ; 

It  is  the  eternal  anguish  Love  decrees." 


366      3n  a  pottugue$e 


TO   PAN 

PIPE  me  a  song,  O  Pan, 

On  a  reed  by  a  river  found 

Where  never  a  hope  was  drowned  ; 

On  a  reed  from  a  river  that  ran 

With  the  Sunrise  forever  o'er  it  ;  — 

But  joy  of  the  heavens  that  bore  it;  — 

Pipe  it  to  me  —  if  you  can. 

Pipe  me  a  song,  O  Pan, 

A  song  with  an  impulse  as  high 

As  the  music  that  dropped  from  the  sky 

When  the  lark's  wild  rapture  o'erran  ; 

A  lark,  with  a  Sunrise  o'er  it, 

But  joy  of  the  heavens  that  bore  it  ; 

Pipe  it  to  me  —  if  you  can. 

Pipe  me  a  song,  0  Pan  ; 

Pipe  to  this  sad  soul  of  mine 

A  song,  than  the  lark's  more  divine, 

That  Love  in  Love's  Eden  began  ; 

A  song  with  the  Sunrise  o'er  it 

But  joy  of  the  heavens  that  bore  it;  — 

Pipe  back  to  me  —  if  you  can. 


Kn  a  Portuguese  <&arDen       367 

MY  HOPE 

AFLOOD  with  life,  before  I  knew  its  name, 

I  hold  it  fairest  gift,  so  well  I  know 

That   in   the   Springtime,  when   the  wild   flowers 

blow, 

With  all  its  forces  I  shall  be  aflame. 
I  own  eternal  things,  for  I  can  claim 
Thoughts  winged  like  winds  that  through  Im- 

menses  go, 

Searching  the  uttermost  places,  high  and  low, 
That,  born  of  Heaven,  Earth's  breath  can  never 

tame: 

I  am  content,  that  dark  of  Death  must  be, 
Because  in  splendor  of  the  Eternal  scheme 
Death  has  been  given  place ;  but  I  can  see 
A  lovelit  Heaven  'bove  winds  that  blow,  agleam ; 
And  know,  if  here  or  there,  earth-bound  or  free, 
I  am  Immortal,  child  of  the  Supreme. 


368      3n  a  Portuguese 


O  BUTTERFLIES  elusive,  hovering  nigh 

The   overblown   wild   roses,   that  reveal 

The  shrunken  and   tarnished  gold  they  wear,  as 

seal 

Of  the  fierce   sun's  insistent   scrutiny. 
Drifting  adown  the  ether  silently, 
Ye  hear  the  thistles  sigh  as  with  appeal 
For  their  lost  purple,  while  the  wild  bees  steal, 
Rivaling   your    place    on    their    blanched   breasts 

to  lie. 

Beneath  the  brazen  sky  ye  slow  advance 
From   flower    to    flower    all   through   the   languid 

day, 

As  if  their  drooping  souls  ye  would  entrance ; 
Drift  on,  drift  airy  on,  on  and  away, 
For  soon,  too  soon,  the  sun  with  blood-red  lance 
Will  ruthless,  summer,  ye  are  part  of,  slay. 


a  Portuguese  (garEen      369 


AN  EARLY  BUTTERFLY 

THOU     glittering,     gauze-winged     harbinger     of 

May, 

Never  through  saffron  meshes  of  its  light 
To  see  another  morning's  sun,  rise  bright, 
And   sail  forth  zenithward  upon  its  way, 
Hast  thou  no  gossamer  desire  to  stay? 
Or  wilt  thou  be  content,  from  untired  flight, 
Within   some  lily's  bosom  shrouded  white 
To  find  thy  grave,  when  thou  hast  lived  thy  day? 
The  secret  thou  wilt  gain  I  fain  would  know, 
Nay,  I  half  envy  thee  thy  coming  sleep, 
For  with  unhealed  regrets  and  stygian  woe, 
I,  who  so  covet  sunshine,  am  a-reek, 
Whilst  thou,  with  ecstasy  unchanged,  wilt  go 
From   tryst   with   life   thy   tryst    with   Death   to 

keep. 


370      3Jn  a  Portuguese  <£atDen 

TO  A  BUTTERFLY  IN  THE  CITY 

BRIGHT  vision   sailing  through  the  city's  street, 

Basking  in  sunshine  of  the  autumn  day, 

Didst  hither  from  thy  purple  castle  stray, 

Enticed  by  rhythmic  chime  of  busy  feet? 

The  deafening  noises  clanging  round  thee  beat ; 

In  wild  amaze  I  see  thee  search  the  way 

To  find  thy  happy  mates  in  airy  play; 

But,  crushed  in  whirl,  death  signals  thy  defeat. 

Defeat?  Rather  let  me  believe,  nay,  claim, 

That  when  thou  went'st,  by  airs  elysian  fanned, 

Thou  wert  uplifted  with  thy  soul  aflame, 

And  touched  by  some  ethereal  spirit  hand — 

A   music-breasted    nightingale   became, 

And  hast  ere  this  the  blue,  victorious  scanned. 


3n  a  porniffue0e  Garden      371 

TO   A  BUTTERFLY  ON   THE    SEASHORE 

WHEREFORE,  O  butterfly,  hast  left  the  rose, 
The  rose  that  all  too  soon  will  blush  no  more? 
Thou   sailest,   solitary,  past  the   shore, 
Lured  to  the  sea,  the  sea  whose  ebbs  and  flows 
Make    massive    music,     and    whose    salt    breath 

blows, 

And  alien  startles  thee,  as  turn'st  to  soar. 
Haste ! — hear'st  thou  not,  the  white  shells  hover 
ing  o'er 

The  muffled  rushes  of  eternal  woes? 
Dreamer  of  roses,  gossamer  delight, 
Back  to  the  flowers,  if  thou  must  wander,  go ! 
Go  live  thy  day  with  all  thy  dreams  in  sight ; 
Thou  art  thyself  a  gauze-winged  dream,  that,  lo! 
Shouldst  vanish  blissful  ere  the  purple  night, 
Since  of  the  dead  rose  thou  wilt  never  know. 


372       3n  a  Portuguese  <$arUen 

THE    MADONNA 

MOTHER  of  all  the  mothers  born  to  weep 
Since  in  that  shed  at  Bethlehem  thy  breast 
Pillowed  Christ's  golden  head,  wert  thou  not 

blest? 

Yea !  though  thou  saw'st  Him  crucified  to  keep 
Love   paramount,   that   thou   could'st   bridge   the 

deep 

Of  thine  own  woe  with  resurrection's  test, 
And  'scape  Demeter's  anguish  of  unrest, 
Who  stayed,  for  Proserpine,  the  season's  sweep? 
O  pitying  one,  that  leavest  a  trail  of  light, 
Outshining   gates     of  Heaven,   that    thou   mayst 

bring 

Earth's  broken-hearted  mothers  to  the  Light, 
Hast  thou  not  seen  within  thy  luminous  ring 
A  little  child  holding  thy  garments  tight 
Who  was  so  beautiful  I  called  him  Spring? 


Jn  a  Portuguese  <$ar&en       373 

MUSIC,  IN  AN  AVENUE 

I  KNEW  the  Minstrel  not,  and  yet  I  knew 

He  played  on  pipes  of  Pan  as  he  went  by, 

And  that  a  passion  boundless  as  the  sky 

Ran  like  a  golden  flame,  his  measures  through. 

I  thought,  this  Minstrel  will  the  gods  pursue 

Till  they  await  his  coming,  nor  deny 

That  their  melodious  ways  together  lie, 

The  while  he  dreams  some  deathless  note  to  woo ! 

On,  past  me,  like  a  nightingale  he  swept, 

While  the  June  air  a-throb  with  music  swayed, 

On,  through  the  avenue  where  the  stone  hounds 

slept ; 

And  as  the  western  glory  on  them  strayed, 
I  think  they  roused,  but  a  fierce  silence  kept, 
Quelled  by  the  magic  of  the  strains  he  played. 


374      3n  a  Portuguese  <$arUen 

They  who  play  pipes  of  Pan  are  never  spent, 
And  I  shall  hear,  from  some  resplendent  height 
That  he  will  reach  in  his  imperial  flight, 
Rapture  on  rapture  by  the  Minstrel  sent ; 
Elect  to  race  with  gods,  behold  he  went 
Flying  upon  his  way  toward  Love  and  Light, 
That  are  their  fairest  goals,  and  tuned  to  sight 
Came  face  to  face  with  the  Omnipotent. 
Flute  on,  0  Minstrel  in  thy  wondrous  June ! 
And  all  the  lilies,  listening  thee,  will  blow, 
And  'cross  more  silver  seas  will  sail  the  moon, 
Till  with  song-bladed  wings  thy  soul  shall  go 
And  out  of  some  near  Eden  snatch  a  tune, 
That  all  the  coming  centuries  shall  know. 


Jn  a  Portuguese  <$artien       375 

TO  A  FLOCK  OF  DOVES 

OH  doves,  that  in  my  childhood  wakened  me 
As  cooing  from  the  long  low  roof  ye  swept, 
How  often  to  my  window  have  I  crept 
The  heaving  of  thy  snowy  breasts  to  see, 
And  watched  ye  fluttering  by  to  some  near  tree 
With  throats  agleam,  while  ye  still  cooing  kept, 
Then  startled  turn,  as  if  your  young  still  slept, 
And  plunge  yourselves  in  morning's  radiancy. 
Oh  doves,  divine,  sweet  doves,  ye  have  flown  by ; 
Wherefore  did  I  not  then  your  wings  implore 
And  hide  me  from  Life's  awful  scrutiny, 
Or  to  a  refuge  on  some  Sinai  soar? 
Oh  dove,  come  back  and  teach  my  soul  to  fly, 
And  lend  your  peace,  ye  doves,  your  peace — and 
more. 


376      3n  a  Portuguese 


THE  ENCHANTED  LAND 

0  THOU  enchanted  land,  thou  land  of  dreams, 
In  which  with  childhood's  fabled  gods  I  dwelt, 
From  those  immortals  unto  whom  I  knelt, 
The  golden  light   of  revelation   streams  ; 

1  see  upon  their  mighty  foreheads  gleams 
Of  that  Elysian  sun,  'neath  which  I  felt 

I  too  was  of  their  race,  ere  time  had  dealt 

Its    weaponeal    blows,    and   left    these    scars    and 

seams  ; 

It  is  the  coming  Spring  that  stirs  my  veins 
And  bears  to  a  dull  red  life's  smoldering  fire  ; 
I  hear  the  echoes  of  Olympian  strains, 
And  as  the  flower-shod  Spring  draws  nigher  and 

nigher, 
From    that     far    dreamland,    ere     Spring    wholly 

reigns, 
Hark,  the  faint  music  of  Apollo's  lyre. 


fln  a  Portuguese  harden       377 

A  RHAPSODY 

I  LIE  in  a  dream,  Spring  scents  blowing  o'er  me, 
Elysian  expanses  stretched  endless  before  me, 
And  hear,  as  from  Eden,  evangels  implore  me. 

Through  the  outswept  horizon,  in  golden  air  show 
ing, 

Shine  wind-wafted  palm  trees,  and  white  lilies 
blowing. 

And  my  soul  seems  enwinged,  toward  eternal  light 
going. 

I  lie  in  a  transport — ah,  is  it  but  seeming? 
Shall  I  waken  unlit,  by  the  glory  down  stream 
ing?— 
Then  let  me  remain,  on  divine  brink  of  dreaming. 


378      3n  a  Portuguese 


IN  MID-OCEAN 

MILLIONS   of   emerald   waves    that   light   the    sea 
Beckon  me  back  to  that  imperial  shore 
Where  August  wildflowers  glitter  as  of  yore  ; 
I,  turned  to  that,  where  blooms  the  fleur-de-lis. 
Beyond  the  sheen,  I  know  how  radiantly 
Enamored  butterflies,  through  sunshine,  soar 
And  bees  with  golden  shackles  wander  o'er 
Their  gaudy  prisons,  reckless  as  if  free. 
The  ship  I  tread  seems  breathing  as  it  plies  ; 
I  feel  its  great  heart  beat  like  some  live  thing  ; 
I  watch  the  sea  it  wounds,  that,  half  healed,  lies 
Trailing  behind  to  where  I  fain  would  wing, 
And  sweeping  past  all  these  immensities, 
In  sight  of  hilltops  hear  the  thrushes  sing. 


3tt  a  Portugue0e  harden      379 

An  endless  bosomed  sea,  stretched  east  and  west, 

Still  palpitating  with  the  unweaned  night, 

A  monstrous  waste  of  waves,  nought  else  in  sight 

Save  the  great  sun  just  rising,  as  in  quest 

Of  the  drowned  universe:     Lo,  crest  on  crest 

Of  the  dark  waves,  breaks  into   silver  light, 

And  I  am  lifted  out  of  half-affright, 

To  where  my  soul  and  morning  are  abreast ; 

Yet  speed,  brave  ship,  speed  onward  to  that  shore 

Where     sing     the     nightingales     'neath     perfect 

moons, 

And  let  me  see  upon  the  grass  once  more 
The  August  sunshine  wooing  August  noons, 
And  in  some  sylvan  glade  hear  o'er  and  o'er 
The  forest  harps  whisper  JEolian  tunes. 


380      3n  a  Portuguese  ®artien 

MARGUERITES 

I  PLUCKED  the  marguerites  I  loved  so  well, 
With  yellow  petals  that  seemed  one  by  one 
Like  dazzling  rays  drawn  downward  from  the  sun 
And  circling  set,  till  to  these  flowers  they  fell. 
"O  signals  of  the  past,"  I  said,  "go  tell 
The  birds  high  singing,  with  the  Spring  o'errun, 
Ye  will  be  breathless  when  Spring's  self  is  done, 
Who   heard   their   playmate   answering   from   the 

dell." 

Careless  I  pass,  though  gorgeous  to  behold 
Myriads  of  wildflowers  that  the  light  winds  swing. 
For    these,    brimmed    with    the    noon's    incarnate 

gold, 

That  to  their  sunrayed  hearts  the  old  light  bring, 
Till  I  can  see,  as  years  had  backward  rolled, 
That  star-voiced  child  still,  star-voiced,  chasing 

Spring. 


3n  a  Portuguese  (DatDen       ssi 

UNFETTERED 

THE  insistent  sunshine  has  impassioned  brought 

Anemones  and  violets  to  sight; 

And  from  their  fragrances  the  birds  in  flight 

Have  a  divine  intoxication  caught, 

And  into  their  impetuous  songs  have  wrought 

New  fire  of  ecstasy !     Lilies  grow  white 

And  flash  to  silver  bloom,  in  dazzling  light 

Of  the  imperial  days,  and  skies  wear  naught 

Of  fleece  or  shadow,  but  serene  and  fair 

With  azure  palpitate.     Illumined   swing 

The  ruby  fringes  budding  maples  bear, 

And  the  warm  vapor  rising  seems  to  bring 

Mysterious  murmurs  pulsing  through  the  air 

Like  the  winged  rapture  of  escaping  spring. 


382      jn  a  Portuguese  <$arDen 

DAFFODILS 

Beneath  the  irised  dawns  of  early  spring, 
The  daffodils  have  drunken  their  fill  of  gold 
From  the  great  yellow-breasted  sun,  and  hold 
Their   leaf-rimmed   chalices    aloft,   and   swing 
Tall  stemmed  and  slender,  as  if  so  to  bring 
Into  their  deeps   the  raptures  manifold, 
That  spilled   from  Heaven   are  to   an   avalanche 

rolled 

From  choirs  of  birds  in  music  rioting: — 
The  earth  seems  borne  to  one  tumultuous   song 
As  of  a  breathless  ecstasy  possessed, 
And  its  warm  blood  that  hurrying  sweeps  along 
Runs  like  a  tide  through  each  gold-laden  breast, 
And  to  these  perfumed  flowers  that  spring's  heart 

throng 
The  mighty  passion  of  spring's  heart  is  pressed. 


Jn  a  Pottugue0e  <!5arDen 


TO  A  MARCH  BLUE  BIRD 

THOU  lover  of  the  April,  sweeping  by 
With  azure  bladed  wings,  and  bosom  bright, 
Thou  stayest  not,  in  thine  impatient  flight, 
But  to  the  dazzling  hearted  sun  on  high, 
Waiting  thy  coming  in  the  eastern  sky, 
Thou  hurriest  to  pour  forth  thy  delight. 
Sing,  though  not  yet,  thine  April  is  in  sight 
And    thou    mayst    lure    her    soundless    footsteps 

nigh; 
Thou  art  not  daunted,  though  thou  hear'st  the 

ring, 

Above  the  murmurous  voices  in  the  air, 
Of  the  March  breezes'  noisy  trumpeting; 
But  singest,  for  her  coming  to  prepare, 
Seeing  adown  the  mystic  hills  of  spring 
The  streaming  gold  of  thy  beloved's  hair. 


SEA  GULLS 

THE  sea's  salt  winds  are  blowing  to  and  fro 

The  soft  young  grasses  on  the  headland  nigh, 

And  'bove  the  foaming  surges  swirling  by, 

Out  through  the  opal  spray,  the  white  gulls  go — - 

Out,  tireless  out  they  wheel,  until  they  grow, 

As  past  the  sunrise  in  full  flower  they  fly, 

Into  pale  blurs  of  silver  lines,  that  lie 

Phantomed    on    the    horizon's    burnished    glow — 

What  pilgrimage  is  theirs,  as  bathed  in  light, 

They  vanish  from  my  vision,  none  can  say ; 

If  to  some  fairy  sea  that  lies  in  sight 

Or  to  their  cliff-built  nests  they  take  their  way ; 

I  only  know  that  guided  in  their  flight 

Nor  winds  nor  tempests  from  their  goal  can  stay. 


3n  a  Portuguese  aarften       385 

A  FELLOW  CRAFTSMAN 

THOU  fellow  craftsman  in  the  world  of  thought, 
Who  from  its  everlasting  deeps  hast  won 
Consummate  visions  radiant  as  the  sun ; 
Hast  thou  in  some  transcendent  moment  wrought 
A  dawn's  resplendence  into  verse,  or  caught 
The  rapture  of  a  thrush  when  day  was  done 
And  felt  it  through  thy  veins  enflooding  run 
To  scarlet  rhythm?     If  so,  thou  needest  naught. 
If  so,  then  all  the  jeweled  pomp  of  kings 
Would  not  entice  thee — larger  grandeurs  thine 
Who  canst  send  forth  thy  soul  upon  its  wings 
And  sweep  out  past  the  stars — and  in  a  line 
Put  goldener  fires  than  shine  in  Saturn's  rings. 
If  so,  thou  hast  quaffed  Heaven,  in  Heaven's  own 
wine. 


386      3n  a  Portuguese  <$ar&en 

THE  CORONATION 

LONDON,  JUNE  TWENTY-SECOND 

LONDON  ablaze  in  its  June  pageantry 
Consummate  bloom  and  color  everywhere, 
With  ensigns  streaming  through  the  yellow  air, 
And  measured  thud  of  horses,  far  and  nigh, 
And  lines  of  stately  chariots  rolling  by, 
And  glittering  stars   that  into   rainbows  flare 
That  foreign  potentates  and  princes  wear, 
And    England's    King    and    Queen,    'neath    En 
gland's  sky ; 

On,  on,  and  on,  in  royal  state  they  came, 
Summer's   omnipotence   at  golden   crest; 
And     crowds,     in     thoroughfares     with     flowers 

aflame, 

Eager  to  watch  their  coming,  breathless  pressed, 
While  from  their  lips  sprang  forth,  with  one  ac 
claim 
A  mighty  transport  echoing  East  and  West. 


Kn  a  Portugue0e  (garden       387 

And  music  swirled,  and  through  the  air  up  flew, 
Higher  and    higher  and    higher,  and  still  more 

high, 

Until  it  smote  the  bosom  of  the  sky 
And  into  an  o'erwhelming  rapture  grew, 
As  if,  the  music  played  the  ages  through 
At  all  the  Coronations,  flooding  by 
Into  the  chorus  as  it  crashed  on  high, 
Had  Time  escaping,  leaped  to  sound  anew ; 
On,  on,  Archbishops  gorgeously  arrayed, 
Envoys  and  Papal  Powers   and  soldiers  massed, 
To  beat  of  drums,  and  blare  of  bugles  played, 
Triumphal  borne,  the  King  and  Queen  went  past, 
The  tribute  of  a  Kingdom  still  unpaid, 
To  claim,  their  Seals  of  Sovereignty  at  last. 


388      3n  a  Portuguese  <£>arDcn 

O'ercanopied  with  June,  on,  on  they  went 
Into  the  Abbey,  wherein  have  been  crowned 
All  England's  Kings,   and  where,  new  kingdoms 

found, 

They  sleep  upon  its  breast  magnificent ; 
The  royal  pair,  as  if  for  Sacrament, 
Waited  enrapt ;  and  all  the  air  was  drowned 
In  a  vast  hush,  like  music  slipped  from  sound, 
While  the  Archbishops,  splendid  laden,  bent, 
And  'mid  the  Prelates,  with  their  ritual  power 
Amid  the  mighty,  mighty  with  renown, 
The  whole  high  heaven,  as  prescient  of  the  hour, 
Upon     the     twain,     dazzling    enthroned,     looked 

down, 
And    saw    them    each — each    England's    flawless 

flower 
Regal  receive,  the  baptism  of  a  Crown. 


3n  a  Portuguese  (gartien       389 

AFTER  THE  CORONATION 

THE  splendid  coronation   rites  are  o'er; 

The  Te   Deums   sung;   and  the  young  King  and 

Queen 

Crowned  and  anointed  'mid  the  pomp  and  sheen, 
Have  left  the  Abbey  to  its  hush  once  more: — 
The  streets  are  filled  with  people ;  din  and  roar 
Of  London's  traffic  has  been  changed  to  scene 
Of  unaccustomed  revels,  and  between 
The  Mall  and  Strand,  thousands  and  thousands 

pour. 

St.  Paul's  is  bathed  in  light ;  the  summer  air 
Is  like  a  prism,  ashine  with  every  hue; 
The  city's  heavy  smoke  lies  here  and  there, 
Like  amber  mountains,  piled  against  the  blue, 
And  songs  in  snatches,  are  heard  everywhere 
With  notes  of  happy  laughter  rippling  through. 


390      Jn  a  Portuguese  harden 

And  dotted  over  London's  mighty  breast, 
Like  mimic  stars,  in  glittering  points  of  gold, 
The  wonders  of  the  countless  shows  are  told : — 
A  child's  balloon  escapes ;  music  is  pressed 
From  toy  harmonicas,  and  all  unguessed 
Puzzles  are  shown,  that  lure  both  young  and  old 
To  watch  their  solving  by  the  Fakirs  bold, 
In  gorgeous  oriental  costumes  dressed : — 
The  sea  of  pleasure  rushes  madly  on, 
And  cares  are  half  forgotten  in  the  glow ; 
And  even  England's  yeomen  have  been  won 
From  fields,  where  violets  and  hawthorne  blow, 
And  hills  with  heather  purpling  in  the  sun 
Boldly,  through  labyrinthine  snares,  to  go: — 


3fn  a  Portuguese  (Satden       391 

Gayer  and  gayer  still,  the  streets  have  grown ; 
The    crowds    have    quaffed    the   sparkle  and    the 

gleam 

Of  June's  imperial  wine,  and  as  in  dream 
With    tireless    feet   tread   ways   with   flowers   be 
strewn  : — 

The  Sun  that  through  the  days  has  riotous  shone, 
Has  sent  down,  now  and  then,  a  scarlet  beam 
That  lit  the  Abbey,  standing  forth  supreme, 
As  if  to  massive  flame  it  had  been  blown : — 
The  city's  noisy  murmur  ebbs  and  flows, 
Cannons  afar  off*  boom,  and  near  bells  ring, 
Life  into  tidal  exultation  grows, 
The   multitudes   rejoice — the  planets   swing: — 
And  this,  O  England,  is  thy  matchless  show, 
London — thy  people,  and  thy  new  crowned  King. 


392      3n  a  Portuguese 


AT  THE  LAST 

I 

IF  this  is  the  end,  what  is  left  me  to  say? 

I  have  loved,  I  have  dreamed,  and  have  soared, 

and  have  wept, 
And  the  world  will  not  know  when  I  sail  past  the 

bay 

Since  mine  eyes  on  invisible  beacons  were  kept 
That    my    passionate    heart    drop    by    drop    bled 

away. 


II 


The  world  will  not  know,  nay,  it  never  has  known, 
That  my  soul  has  swept  morning  from  east  unto 

west 
Upon    what    pinions    lifted,    through    what    ether 

blown 
What  knowledge  have  I  who  have  lain  breast  to 

breast 
With  the  transcendent   sun   on   its   transcendent 

throne. 


3n  a  Portuguese  ffatDen       393 

in 

If  this  is  the  end,  what  is  left  me  to  say? 

I  have  been  to  the  gateways  of  asphodels  borne 

And  the  world  will  forget  when  I  sail  past  the 

bay 
Though  my  footprints  have  paths  to  Gethsemane 

worn 
That    my   passionate   heart   drop    by    drop    bled 

away. 


